Vanishing Acts
by lionesseyes13
Summary: How a Christmas tree came to be in Mark and Rob's room, how it got lost, and how it ultimately was found.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: The whole premise of this fic is as historically accurate as I could make it. There was a pre-Olypmic tournament in Lake Placid in December that the US hockey team participated in, and while they were there, Rob McClanahan and Mark Johnson, as confirmed by two different articles with quotes and everything, did have a Christmas tree in their hotel room that meets the same fate as the one in this story. (If the thought of Rob and Mark having a Christmas tree in their hotel room doesn't make you want to run out of your house squealing to hug your closest neighbor, then I don't know how you found this fanfiction, honestly.) A lot of the little details are as true as I could make them, too. For instance, Bob Suter did accompany Mark and Badger Bob Johnson to the trials for the '76 Olympic team that Bob Johnson coached, and I seriously found an article (if you don't spend your leisure time looking up obscure articles about the Miracle on Ice, I don't know what's wrong with you) that relates how Bob Suter was chattering about how he wanted to be on an Olympic team one day and what Badger Bob's response to that was. Naturally, that whole scene was too adorable not to be included in fanfic…

Handle with Care

"How does your ankle feel?" Mark Johnson asked Bob Suter. They were both on Bob's bed in the hotel room he shared with Ken Morrow, Mark's chin resting on the knees he had folded up to his chest, and Bob's leg stretched out on a pillow propping his injured ankle.

"Unstable," answered Bob, looking out the window at Mirror Lake, which was a perfect reflection of the steely gray sky, instead of into Mark's eyes. It was early December, most woodland animals were hibernating, and the trees, blanketed in snow, resembled nothing more than bare, skeletal arms forever reaching for something intangible and out of grasp.

"Like you can't walk or skate on it?" Mark bit his lip, wishing that Bob's skate had never found that crack in the ice during practice today.

"Yeah, and like it's as hot as the ninth circle of hell one second and as cold as liquid nitrogen the next." Bob snorted, and Mark grimaced. That didn't sound pleasant at all, and Bob, a naturally fearsome defenseman, was even more dangerous than usual when he was fighting through his own pain. At the University of Wisconsin, he had been the all-time record holder in penalty minutes, and Mark was always grateful to have Bob as a friend and teammate, rather than an opponent trying to destroy his dreams of lighting up the scoreboard. "Like it's numb one minute and has got a hundred knives stabbing into it the next. Doc says it broken."

"I'm sorry," murmured Mark, almost choking on the words, because there was nothing else that could be said to a friend whose body betrayed him by breaking the December before the Olympics. It could take months for a player to return to peak playing condition after breaking an ankle or a wrist, and if Mark knew that, so did Herb. By the time Bob healed completely, the Olympics might be over, and the question that made Mark's throat burn with bile was whether Bob would experience it in person or through a television screen. Injuries were the specter of doom that no collegiate or amateur athlete ever wanted to confront. A career could end as suddenly as a bone could break, and an Olympic hope could snap with an ankle.

"Don't be sorry." The hundred muscles controlling Bob's facial expression all seemed to tighten at once. "I can still play."

"Of course." Mark nodded. To him, it had never been a question that Bob would charge back onto the ice as soon as Doc determined that such an exertion wouldn't exacerbate the injury. At their level, players were expected by themselves, their coaches, and their teammates to work through pain in the same way factory workers pressed on with their tasks, ignoring deafening noises of clanking machinery. Sometimes Mark even suspected that there wasn't a hockey player who had competed on the Division I level who hadn't skated on a taped ankle or knee, or shot with a bandaged wrist or shoulder. To an outsider, that might have appeared like cruel coaching (and when it resulted in a worsening injury, it was), but anyone who had ever played hockey or any team sport knew it was a different, more terrible agony to have to sit on a bench, watching your team play and hopeless to help them when they needed it. That was why the threat of being sat out for even as little as a shift was such a powerful tool in a coach's disciplinary and motivational kits. Nobody wanted to be a benchwarmer when they could be heating up the ice instead. "With a bit of adrenaline and tape, you can do anything."

"I'm as tough as toenails." Appeased, Bob's typically pugnacious face softened into a slight smile. "It's good to know that someone, even a person with as poor taste as you, appreciates that."

"Speaking of toenails, that reminds me of a brilliant moment in your college hockey career." Mark's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Remember that time my brother partially severed your toe during a warm-up skate, and you still came racing out to play as soon as the doctor had finished stitching your toe back on properly."

"You're never in a million years going to let me live that down, are you?" grumbled Bob, but his eyes blazed more with pride than irritation. Bob would always be satisfied to be remembered as a player who could tough out anything, even a chopped off toe.

"I'm not going to let Peter live that one down, more like," Mark corrected, grinning. "For a big brother, that is comedic gold."

"I bet your siblings love you." Bob rolled his eyes. "How could they resist your charming, sensitive knack of worming their most embarrassing moments into every possible conversation?"

"They more than return the favor." Mark chuckled. "And I detect unwarranted sarcasm in your voice, because, seriously, who wouldn't want me for a brother?"

"Hmm. Let me think like Einstein." Exaggeratedly pensive, Bob rubbed his chin. "I can list four names off the top of my head—"

"What a coincidence," observed Mark wryly, "since I have four siblings."

"Coincidence?" Bob scoffed. "I think not."

"No need to tell me you don't think like it's new information." Mark smirked. "You never did much thinking."

"Oh, shut your trap." Bob's brows drew together in a glower. "I liked you better when you didn't talk."

"An occupational hazard of being Mac's roommate is you start imitating his bad habit of giving a snappy retort to everything anyone ever says." Mark shrugged. "If you think you can hold up better under a constant barrage of Rob McClanahan attitude, we can switch rooms."

"You just want to win the Most Mellow Roommates in History award with Morrow." Bob gave a bark of a laugh. "Anyway, if I roomed with Mac, I'd end up punching out all of his pearly-whites within an hour, and his dad probably has some lawyer friends who could sue the very clothes off my back for assault. I like my clothes, as old and as unfashionable as they might be, so we should probably keep the roommate arrangement the same."

Mark chuckled, thinking that it was not exactly astonishing that Bob had noticed the almost terrifying zeal with which Rob performed basic grooming tasks like brushing his teeth. Mark brushed his teeth in the morning and evening to prevent cavities and bad breath; Rob brushed his teeth at least twice a day (preferably three or four times to ensure maximum cleanliness) for those reasons but also presumably so that his smile would be white enough at any moment to be photographed for a toothpaste advertisement. It was hard not to laugh at such extreme devotion to personal hygiene, though Mark would be the first to admit that he would prefer a neat freak roommate to a total slob. After all, it wasn't as if Rob forced Mark to adhere to his manic grooming regimen. A roommate who wouldn't step out the door with a hair out of place was a fair trade for a roommate who didn't create a carpet of sweaty, dirty clothes. When it came down to it, rooming with Rob McClanahan was more of an amusement than an annoyance.

"Yeah, well, speaking of Mac, I think he wants to go to the grocery store with me," said Mark, pushing himself off Bob's bed and heading toward the door. Whenever the team stayed in a hotel for a few days or more, Rob and Mark would go to the supermarket to stash up on what Mark referred to as the college student staples. Theoretically, splitting the cost of food was supposed to be cheaper for both of them, but Rob's penchant for selecting food with more of an eye toward quality than price tag got quite expensive pretty quickly. "Got to pick up the basics to fill up the stomach. Want me to get you anything?"

"No." Bob shook his head, and then added so quietly that Mark almost didn't hear, "I wanted to be in the Olympics for years."

A memory rammed into Mark's mind with the velocity of a speeding tractor trailer, and he was seventeen again, talking and laughing with Bob in the back seat as they traveled to Colorado to watch the Olympic trials Dad was running. Air streamed through the open windows, blowing their hair and smacking into their cheeks, and two hundred mile marker signs from nowhere whizzed by as Bob bounced around in his seat like an energetic puppy, babbling on about how much he wanted to be in the Olympics one day. When Bob, crimson from oxygen-deprivation, finally stopped speaking long enough to draw breath, Dad had smiled into the rearview mirror and remarked that Bob needed to play for him at the University of Wisconsin first…

Shaking his head to clear it of the image of two high school boys driving down the highway to whatever destination was next on their life journey (which seemed to stretch as long as the pavement before the car), Mark replied in a hushed tone, "I know, and I've dreamed of going to the Olympics together for awhile. It's going to happen no matter how much you beat yourself up for our glorious moment."

"Yep." Bob nodded as if this simple gesture were all it required to disband his fears that he would be cut because of his broken ankle. "The future is there. It will happen to us."

"You can bet your bottom dollar on that." With a final grin, Mark slipped out of Bob's room and across the hallway into the one he shared with Rob, who was flopped on his bed, nose buried in _A Tale of Two Cities_.

"Mac, does your reading material always have to bring me unpleasant flashbacks of high school English?" inquired Mark solicitously, trying not to remember how boring Dickens' _Great Expectations_ had made tenth grade English. After the torturous experience of reading that novel with its predictable plot and hackneyed characters rendered all the more unpalatable by Dickens' propensity for using four words where one would due, Mark had very low expectations of Charles Dickens in particular and classics in general. "Does reading Victorian literature really provide you with that many insights into the modern world to make up for the absolute tedium of reading it?"

"I'm sorry that _Tubby the Turtle _isn't everyone's idea of a scintillating read," Rob remarked waspishly, glancing up from his novel long enough to treat Mark to a look of pure condescension. "Stereotypes of dumb hockey players aside, some of us have graduated kindergarten, you see."

"Yes, when you graduate kindergarten, you sign a sacred pact that you'll never be spotted with a book that isn't at least a hundred years old in your hands." Mark's eyes expanded innocently. "You can't let anyone think for a second that you are anything less than well-educated."

"Listen, Mark." Rob slammed _A Tale of Two Cities _shut around a bookmark. "I don't read classics to impress anyone on this team, which is fortunate, because you uncultured idiots enjoy nothing more than poking fun at my reading material if it requires more than two brain cells to appreciate. No, I read classics since there are so many books written you could spend a lifetime reading and still only get through a fraction of them. I don't have a lifetime to spend just reading, so when I do read, I have to make sure the book is _quality_: a worthy investment of my time and mind. Classics are works that generations of scholars have identified as worthwhile. Even if some classics don't make exciting reads, they still exercise my brain. Since I don't have time to waste on books that don't stretch my mind, I stick to classics that have acknowledged literary merit."

Nibbling on his lower lip, Mark hoped for what was probably the thousandth time since he met the other young man that the fire that drove Rob McClanahan would not burn itself out. He was more afraid of that happening to someone like Robbie than to Rizzo or Buzz. While Rizzo and Buzz regarded life as fun, one joke after another, Rob defined it as a struggle, a marathon of challenges. To Rob, everything was a battle to do his best, which would never be quite good enough.

"All right." Mark offered his roommate his gentlest, most disarming grin. "Just remember to give your mind a rest and do at least one dumb thing every day, okay? Relax and go to a John Wayne movie from time to time. Stuff like that will keep you from going around the twist before your twenty-fifth birthday."

"Go to a John Wayne movie," repeated Rob slowly, testing the taste of each syllable on his tongue. "Is there even a John Wayne movie in theaters right now?"

"Don't know," Mark admitted, cheeks turning scarlet. "That's just what Dad always says when a player needs to unwind. I'm pretty sure that he never knows whether there's actually a John Wayne movie out when he tells a player to go see one, either."

"Still better advice than anything Herb could come up with." Rob's mouth twitched at the edges. "I'm reasonably certain that he defines the movies as a place where lesser mortals go to waste their time, which explains why they fail in so many ways."

"Speaking of time, we should get over to the supermarket," pointed out Mark, checking his watch. "We want to get there before it closes."

"Right," Rob agreed, rising and putting on a hat and gloves from his nightstand. "We've got to get some cereal for tomorrow's breakfast. I couldn't stomach the hotel's complimentary scorched toast two mornings in a row."

"Never trust a free meal." Mark tucked his own hat over his ears and tugged his gloves over his fingers. "If you ask me, we're just lucky to have avoided food poisoning."

"Don't speak too soon," muttered Rob, as, bundled in their down jackets, they exited their room and strode toward the elevator bank. Pressing the down arrow, he went on in a whisper as if he didn't want a stranger in the empty corridor to overhear his crude comment, "Probably one of us will be throwing up in the toilet this evening. I would swear in a court of law that butter was rancid."

"I almost broke a tooth the bread was so stale," Mark added, as the elevator arrived with a ding and they boarded it.

They spent the rest of the trip to the grocery store speculating on how old various components of the hotel's idea of toast were, but when they stepped into the supermarket with its gleaming aisles of fresh food, all thoughts of substandard meals were erased from their brains as fast as algebra faded from a student's memory during summer vacation.

"Are Cheerios fine?" Mark asked, jerking his chin at a box as they approached a cereal display.

"Yep." Rob grabbed the cereal off the shelf and dumped it into the basket he had grabbed from the stack by the door. "Brings back happy memories of bribes to be quiet in church and not humiliate my whole family before God and congregation. My parents operated under the somewhat questionable theory that if I was busy stuffing cereal into my mouth, I wouldn't be able to make enough fuss to be a serious distraction to the people in the pews around us."

"I built some amazing Cheerio skyscrapers when I was a little boy in church." Mark snickered, as they continued to the rear of the store where the refrigerators were located. Over the months of traveling around the country, playing minor league teams in preparation for the Olympics, he and Rob had discovered that, with creative packing, an ice bucket could fit a half gallon of milk, a bottle of orange juice, and a jar of jelly. All they had to do to keep the food from spoiling was change the ice regularly.

Grabbing milk and orange juice from the refrigerators and placing the beverages in Rob's basket, Mark finished, "I probably distracted so many people in the pews behind me from important sermons over the years that I should be more repentant than I am."

"Nonsense." Rob whacked him lightly with the grocery basket as they walked to the bread aisle. "The Bible says we're supposed to come to God as little children, doesn't it? It follows logically, then, that building and appreciating Cheerio towers is a vital part of the salvation process."

"You must be _really _hungry if you're ascribing religious significance to Cheerios." Shaking his head at his friend's folly, Mark reached out to take a loaf of Wonderbread from the shelf they were passing.

"Don't take that." Rob's lips thinned in disapproval. "It's flimsy and cheap. I wouldn't feed it to ducks in the pond back home."

"Excuse me." Mark stiffened as though ice had replaced his spine. On a whole, Rob's sophisticated tastes were admirable because they meant he had high standards for himself on and off the ice, but they could try the patience when he felt they gave him the right to pronounce on what was high-quality, what was cheap, and what was unpardonably gaudy. These rulings were made even more infuriating by the haughty voice—the one that made Mark feel like he could fall head first into the chasm separating the middle class from the upper middle class-in which Rob offered such judgments. Thinking that his roommate might be the nicest snob (but still a snob) in the entire world, Mark hissed, "For your information, my mom has bought Wonderbread for years, and it has served our family perfectly well, thank you."

"Calm down, Mark." Rob lifted a placatory palm. "Don't make that vein in your neck explode. Look, if this is about money, well, I can totally afford to get us better." Here, he waved at a shelf of whole wheat breads loaded with the grains that got stuck in teeth and supposedly made the breads more nutritious. "Money isn't an issue. We can get whatever we want. My parents aren't going to let us starve."

"I want Wonderbread." Gritting his teeth, Mark tossed the loaf into Rob's shopping basket. "You can eat it, or you can donate your half to children in Africa who are really starving. I imagine either would be a nice learning experience for you about how the rest of the world beyond your gated community lives."

"Fine." Rob stalked down the aisle and hurled a packet of assorted plastic cutlery—the kind that resembled real silverware that was designed to be used at the type of garden parties the McClanahan family probably hosted regularly on their elegant patio Mark had seen in some of the pictures Rob put on their dresser—into the basket. "Whatever makes you happy. Save a penny at the expense of taste whenever you like."

"Rob." Trying to soothe his own temper as well as his friend's, Mark deliberately evened his voice, smoothing out all the barbs that had lined his earlier words. "Wonderbread is fun, you'll see. You can roll the slices into these delightful little balls."

"I never play with my food." Looking like the poster boy for the perfect snot, Rob tilted his nose in the air, as if to state plainly by his disdainful gesture that, even as a toddler, he had understood that toys, not food, were for playing with. Since then, of course, he had never been caught so much as fiddling at his vegetables with his fork, because that was so undignified. "Playing with your food is _so _ill-bred."

Feeling as if he had been slapped in the face and realizing that his cheeks were flaming as if they had been struck, Mark froze. Marveling at how he could be so hot and so cold with anger and humiliation, he waved at the jars of jelly on the shelf beside him, asking as if this were the reason he had halted, "Grape or strawberry jelly?"

"Neither." Rob snatched a jar of raspberry preserves from the shelf on the opposite side of the aisle and deposited it into the grocery basket. "This is better quality and has more actual fruit in it. Jelly is just sweetened goop dyed purple or red, depending on the fruit it purports to be from. We can afford better, or at least I can."

Mark could feel the blood boiling in his veins, surging through his body and heating his brain. His mouth flew open, and he knew that he was going to say something terrible, because, for once, he was not going to bite his tongue.

"You are the biggest snob I've ever been unlucky enough to meet," he seethed in barely more than a whisper, resisting the temptation to stomp his foot or chuck a jelly jar off the rack at Rob's arrogant head. "Not just about food, but about everything imaginable."

Fumbling in his jeans pocket, Mark withdrew his wallet to yank out a ten dollar bill, which he thrust into Rob's fist, rapping out, "Here. This is for the milk, orange juice, and cereal. You can return the Wonderbread and get whatever bread is high-quality enough to suit your exacting standards. I'm going now, because I can't stand another second in your insufferable company."

Then, before Rob could recover enough from the shock of this tirade to retort, Mark spun on his heel and hurried toward the exit. As he stormed out of the store onto Main Street, he noticed that his vision was blurry like an unfocused picture with tears of fury, wounded pride, frustration, or a combination of those emotions. Overcome by the vortex whirling inside of him, he collapsed onto a bench, staring at a miniature Christmas tree in the store front across the road without really seeing any of its shining ornaments, glittering tinsel, or glowing white lights. That Christmas tree was too pure and beautiful to belong to a world that was home to a creature as irascible and as egotistical as Mark Johnson.

Massaging his temples, Mark told himself sternly that he was too old to have temper tantrums in supermarkets about not getting the foods he wanted. He should have just let Rob buy whichever food he wished (even if peanut butter and jelly became peanut butter and preserves), but the problem hadn't been what Rob wanted; it had been _how _he wanted it…How Rob wanted all the best food rubbed Mark's pride the wrong way, and, in the final analysis, Mark was just as arrogant as Rob…

_Maybe you and Rob just spend too much time together_, Mark thought, regulating his breathing in an attempt to regain mastery of his temper, although he recognized that was comparable to knotting the bag after the cat leapt out and scratched everyone's faces._ When you are line mates and roommates, you can't help but grate on each other's nerves every once in a while even if you do like one another very much, and you know that you get tetchy when you don't have your alone time. That's not an excuse, because at your age, you should be mature enough to get the solitude you need before you have a public meltdown, but it is the truth, and, once you've had some time to yourself, Rob won't seem like such an awful person to hang out with all the time. _

He was tugged out of his musings by Rob plopping down beside him with a rustle of plastic grocery bags.

"I wasn't trying to be a snob, I swear, Mark," Rob murmured so softly it almost melted into the powder sugar snow spiraling down around them, sprinkling the sidewalk, their bench, and their clothing, and transforming the whole scene into one that belonged on the front of some clichéd Christmas card.

"You don't need to impersonate something you are." Mark grabbed a handful of snow off the bench just to feel it smoosh through his gloved fingers.

"You certainly aren't the first person to accuse me of being a snob." Rob jammed his right fingers against his left palm with enough velocity that Mark could hear the knuckles crack like nut shells. "Loads of my friends from the U have told me that they thought I was a snot when they first met me, but, when they got to know me, they realized that I was the complete opposite."

When Mark provided no response to this revelation, Rob sighed and hedged onward, "What I'm trying to say is that snot is just an unattractive persona I fall back into when I don't feel confident at all on the inside. It's like when I feel stupid how I have to burst out with a snide remark so that everyone will believe the lie that I'm smart even though I really have a boulder for a brain. Or when I feel scared, I have to throw down some sort of gauntlet so nobody suspects that I'm having an internal nervous breakdown. I know it's horrible that I act that way, but maybe if I'm humble enough to confess that ugly side of me to you, you could find it in your heart to forgive me for being an arrogant jerk."

Gazing into Rob's ashen, anxious face, Mark swallowed. In many ways, it was as if he was seeing the real Rob McClanahan for the first time: the Rob whose engine was fueled more by a fear of failure than by a desire for success; the Rob who could exchange witty banter with some of the sharpest tongues Mark had ever met while feeling like a fool; the Rob who could read a thousand classics and still be afraid he was ignorant; the Rob who would do anything in an eye blink to help a teammate but who feared his teammates didn't actually care for him.

"I'm sorry, Robbie." The words spilled out as a whisper carried on the wind before Mark could stop them.

"Don't worry about it, Magic," answered Rob so thickly it sounded as if he were suffering from a nosebleed. Gathering up the grocery bags with a rustle, he feigned a slight smile. "I wouldn't want to be friends with someone as argumentative as me, either. No hard feelings, at least not on my side."

"That's not what I meant." Mark clutched Rob's wrist, and the other young man whirled around to face him. Biting his lip, Mark explained tentatively, "What I meant is that I'm sorry you seem to believe that whatever you do isn't good enough, and I apologize for calling you a snob. I know that you don't like to be teased about how much money your family has or about your intellectual interests. As your friend, I should never have gone out of my way to say something I knew would be hurtful to you."

"No need to apologize." Rob shrugged. "Friends have to be honest with each other even if the truth stings like cleaning a cut. Perhaps especially if it does."

"It wasn't the truth, though." Fervently, Mark shook his head. "You're a lot of things—some of them annoying—but a snob isn't among them. Snobs think they're better than everyone else, and you fear that you're a good deal worse than everybody else."

"I guess I don't have any secrets from you anymore." Rob's rueful manner suggested that he was trying to make a joke when nothing was really funny.

"No." Mark squeezed Rob's wrist gently. "And you don't have to be afraid that you're worse than most people because you're one of the smartest, strongest, and most dedicated people I know. Anybody would be honored to be your friend."

"I didn't come out here to get an ego boost." Rob gave a quarter moon smirk he had picked up from O.C. "I came out here to apologize. Look, Mark, sometimes I forget that I'm not in North Oaks. When people from my town go to the malls in Minneapolis or St. Paul, we go with a horde of friends whose job it is to critique every potential purchase of ours, while we return the favor for them. I tell them if the khakis they're trying on look cheap or the watch they're eyeballing is too tacky and ostentatious. They know if I say it to their face, nobody will end up whispering it behind their back, so they're grateful to have the frank feedback. In return, they tell me if the polo shirt I'm going to buy seems low-quality or if the belt I'm interested in is really quite gaudy."

"And if they say that?" Mark arched an eyebrow. "What do you do then?"

"Put whatever it is back right away and act like I was only joking about considering the purchase," replied Rob, all honesty. "I don't want its bad style branding me forever. I couldn't bear to look bad."

"Not even if you really liked whatever it was?" Mark's forehead furrowed into a frown that mirrored the one on his lips.

"Not even then." Rob shook his head. "I'm not saying that's right or admirable. It's just how my community taught me to be." Then, he gave a faint grin that contained more than a trace of revolt. "But I'm glad that you aren't like that, Magic, and I actually am looking forward to trying one of those Wonderbread balls you described."

"You kept the Wonderbread?" Mark stuttered, wondering why this small gesture seemed to mean the universe to him.

"Yeah." Rob's teeth flashed in a broad beam. "I got you some Skippy peanut butter, too. It's the smooth kind, because I know how much you hate crunch in your sandwich."

Understanding how much it must have cost Rob to refrain from purchasing whatever all-natural, gourmet peanut butter was on the supermarket shelves in exchange for the highly processed brand Mark preferred, Mark offered his own overture of reconciliation, confessing, "Preserves do taste better with peanut butter than jelly does. I think that the raspberry preserves you bought will be great."

"So, we've got peace between us just before Christmas." Rob pretended to wipe sweat from his brow. "What a relief."

"The Christmas tree in the shop window across the street does look more beautiful now that we're at peace," Mark commented, and, as Rob pivoted to study the tree, continued, "I love Christmas decorations, especially trees with all their breathtaking ornaments. Each ornament is beautiful, unique, and has to be handled with care."

"When my dad and mom got engaged, it was near Christmas, so one of Dad's presents for Mom was a set of soft-spun glass ornaments—a bride and a groom—so delicate that, when I was little, I thought they would break if I breathed on them too hard." Rob gazed into the star shining atop the Christmas tree across the road. "In the end, it was my golden retriever Sassy's tail that shattered the ornaments. She wagged her tail near the coffee table on which the ornaments were waiting to be hung on our tree, and the ornaments smashed on the floor."

"Could your parents get new ones?" Mark asked.

"They could." Rob cocked his head. "But they chose not to. Instead, they got the ornaments repaired, and that was better. You could see the fault lines where the ornaments had been broken, but that only made them more beautiful. Our family treasured those precious glass ornaments all the more because they had once been cracked but were now whole again."

Rob's eyes locked on Mark's, and, somehow, Mark sensed that they were not talking about ornaments any more, but rather friendships, and he thought that all those high school English classes about symbolism were worth it just so that he could comprehend what his cultured friend was saying to him in this moment. "I guess we do have to handle special things with care, Mark, but if they do break because someone is careless or stupid, we don't have to panic because they can be fixed and become more precious since they were almost destroyed forever."

"Handle things with care, but don't be afraid to take them off the shelf." Mark grinned. "Sounds like as good a philosophy as any to me."

"Good. That's enough of a heart-to-heart to last me for a century." Rob yanked Mark up from the bench with a sharp tug on his arm. "Come on. I'm going to get us a tree to decorate. Our hotel room is so bland and depressing. I don't want out teammates talking about how we have no flair for interior design, especially around the holiday season, and I promise that I won't call any tree you pick out cheap or gaudy."


	2. Chapter 2

No Such Thing as Bad

An hour later, laden with shopping bags packed with groceries and decorations for the artificial Christmas tree in the box Mark had tucked under his arm, they returned to their hotel room.

"Bit brisk outside," commented Mark, depositing his shopping bags and the Christmas tree on the desk, removing his hat and gloves, placing them on his nightstand, and trying to rub some circulation back into his fingers and cheeks. "Especially now that the sun has gone down."

"Yeah, I think Herb found the only place in the country more miserable than Minnesota to spend the dead of winter in," Rob griped, taking off his hat and gloves, returning them to his nightstand, and beginning to rip the tape off the Christmas tree box with gusto. "Oh, and to establish a base of comparison, the four seasons in Minnesota are winter, still winter, the time they fill in the potholes, and almost winter."

"In the interest of fairness, I feel like the Olympic Committee is more to blame for us being in Lake Placid," pointed out Mark, grinning, as he put the groceries that didn't need to be kept cold in an unused dresser drawer. "Herb didn't choose where this tournament would be held, after all."

"Whatever." Rob's tone suggested that Mark's words had been about as fascinating as watching a scab form. "You can blame whomever you want for your problems, and let me blame whomever I want for mine."

"Deal." Smiling, Mark grabbed the ice bucket from the corner by the closet. "I'll be back in a minute. Just getting some ice for the groceries."

"Take your time, and I'll try not to overdo the celebration of your absence." Rob continued to attack the box with vigor. "I don't want to be fighting a hangover in tomorrow's game."

Not bothering to retort, Mark stepped into the hallway, leaving the door to his room ajar. He made his way down the carpeted corridor to the ice dispenser in the wall near the elevator bank, where he waited patiently for Dave Christian and Neal Broten to finish filling their bucket.

"Hey, Magic," chirped Neal, vivacious as ever, whirling around to face Mark as he joined them at the dispenser. "Keeping alert, huh?"

Sensing trouble from one of the locker room's most notorious pranksters, Mark leapt back in time to evade the ice cube Neal attempted to drop down the front of his shirt.

"Neal!" Mark's exclamation was a cross between a yelp and a reprimand. "If I want ice dumped down my front, I'll go to the immense bother of asking."

"Just making sure you're sharp!" Neal bounced around on his toes, his voice rising squeakily, as it always did when he was excited, which was his default state, and which often resulted in him being teased by his teammates for sounding like Mickey Mouse. "Got to be all systems go for tomorrow's game. Can't have you running on less than full throttle. I don't want to have to go out there and score five goals all by myself."

"You won't have to, Neal." Dave nudged his roommate's shoulder. "I'll put them in for you."

"Get real." Neal elbowed Dave in the ribs. "Do you even know where the net is?"

"Sure." Dave took the now full bucket out from under the dispenser. "It's wherever you're not shooting."

"I'm still waiting for the plot twist that Herb had your birth certificates faked to make you eligible for the Olympics." Mark shook his head as he stepped up to the dispenser and started pouring ice into his bucket. "Between you two, you have the maturity of a twelve-year-old."

"Yep," Dave called, as he and Neal disappeared down the hallway toward their room. "I'm ten, and Neal is still in his terrible two's."

Shaking his head in a mixture of amusement and aggravation, Mark, staring into the ice falling into the bucket, wondered why such incredible talent had to come in such irritating packages...

"It took you long enough to get back," observed Rob, glancing up from the instruction manual that described how to build the Christmas tree, as Mark returned to their room with the filled ice bucket. "I drank all three of my kegs of beer."

"I thought you weren't going to overdo the celebration of my absence." Mark chuckled, arranging the orange juice, milk, and raspberry preserves in the bucket.

"I can hold my alcohol really well," answered Rob, smirking, as his eyes zoomed over the directions. "Anyway, what took you so long? Did you hike up to Canada and hack the ice off a mountain peak or something?"

"Nah, but I wish I had," Mark replied, lips quirking. "It would have been less of an ordeal than running into Neal Broten and Dave Christian at the ice dispenser. They're always an experience and a half."

"Neal can make anything an adventure." Rob's mouth thinned into a disapproving line. "What did he do this time? Try to shove an ice cube down your pants?"

"Nope, just down my shirt." Mark placed the ice bucket on the windowsill to benefit from the drafts that came through the glass and plopped on the floor across from Rob. "I dodged in time, though. I know I always have to be on my toes around that little rascal."

"You're preaching to the choir." Rob rolled his eyes and then continued reading the instructions. "Obviously, I should have hazed him more as a freshman. Now he thinks he is an actual human being entitled to make other people miserable, and it's all my fault for not torturing him enough when he was a freshman."

Aware that Rob, as usual, didn't intend for his acerbic remark to be taken seriously, Mark snickered. When it came down to it, Rob was about a thousand times more likely to go out of his way to help a teammate than to do something spiteful to another player on his team, so his sarcastic façade was more hilarious than he probably meant for it to be. Besides, Mark knew that Rob didn't truly dislike Neal, who was ultimately too sunny a personality to inspire any negative emotions in teammates stronger than exasperation or vexation.

"Neal doesn't mean any harm," Mark said, threading his fingers through the carpet. "Not even when he accidentally-on purpose bangs into the sticks you've just finished taping perfectly."

"Of course not." Rob snorted. "With him, everything is whimsical, and planning anything is a crime against the universe."

"Speaking of plans, you are one of the few guys I've ever seen read directions before attempting to build something." Mark grinned. "Who taught you to do that? Your mom?"

"Me prototypical dumb man." Rob put on his best imitation of a caveman grunt. "Me no read directions. Me just build tree how me thinks it should be built. Then me surprised when me break tree. Me use duct tape to fix tree. Tree hideous but tree mine."

"I didn't claim not reading the directions was the best approach." Mark laughed. "I just said it was the male one."

"Not in my house," argued Rob. "My dad always reads the directions. He says that's where you find all the important legal disclaimers like, in the case of this product, we can't sue if we give one of the tree branches to a baby, and the baby chokes on it."

"Your whole worldview really is skewed by the fact that your father is a lawyer," Mark muttered, watching as Rob finally pushed the instructions aside.

"Being a bloodthirsty leech is environmental and genetic." Rob shrugged, and then went on crisply, "Anyway, our first step is to sort the branches into three piles: large, medium, and small. That should be an easy enough task for even someone as mentally challenged as you not to mess up completely."

"You just keep inflating my ego with your kind words." Mark dug into the box and joined Rob in organizing the branches into three piles according to size.

"Less talking and more sorting." Rob wrinkled his nose. "This is how it always is with us: I do all the hard work while you get the lion's share of the glory. I'll put up this tree all by myself and decorate it alone. Then everybody will remark what a lovely tree Johnson and McClanahan have in their room, and my name will never be mentioned first."

"Don't blame me for your last name's inferior positioning in the alphabet." Mark tapped Rob's arm with one of the smaller branches before dumping it onto the appropriate stack. "J always comes before M in the alphabet."

"Wow, what an insight into life's mysteries." Rob whistled mockingly, and whacked Mark's knee with one of the larger branches en route to dropping it onto the right pile. "I'm going to have to borrow your notebooks one day, Sherlock."

"Only if you can afford the very reasonable rental fee of twenty dollars an hour." Mark's eyes gleamed playfully. "What's our next step, Watson?"

"Call me Watson again, and I'll knock you back to Victorian London." Rob wagged a warning finger and then explained, pulling out the holder and the trunk of the tree from the now empty box, "We stick the trunk of the tree into the middle of the holder, and make sure that it is stable."

"Okay." Mark grabbed onto the red Christmas tree stand. "I'll hang onto the holder so that it doesn't move while you shove the trunk into it."

"As I said, I'll do the hard work," grunted Rob, wedging the trunk into the stand. "Meanwhile, you sit on your rear and steal a majority of the credit."

"The tree seems pretty stable." Mark gave the tree an experimental tug once Rob had secured it in the holder.

"I'm so touched to earn the coveted Mark Johnson stamp of approval." Eyes widening, Rob threw a palm over his heart. "I shall treasure the memory of this precious moment well into my senility."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say I approve." Mark furrowed his brow in feigned contemplation. "I'm not sure I'll ever be able to wholeheartedly approve of anything you do, Robbie."

"Anyone who claims you're a friendly person is lying, delusional, or just plain stupid." Rob kicked Mark's shin and then scooped up one of the larger branches. "Now, we attach the biggest branches to the bottom row of rungs on the trunk. Then we put the medium branches on the middle row, and the smallest branches on the top row. Do you understand, or should I repeat it more slowly, using shorter words?"

"That won't be necessary," Mark assured his roommate, as they snapped the branches into the proper rungs. "If you understand something despite the fact that the lightbulb over your head never turns on, I certainly can grasp it."

"Speaking of lights, it's time we put some on our tree." Rob took a spool of lights out of a shopping bag, unraveled one end of the string, and thrust it into Mark's hand, ordering breezily, "Come on. Wrap that around the tree, and I'll hold the spool for you."

"I thought I was supposed to be getting the easy jobs around here," Mark reminded his roommate wryly, weaving the strand of lights around the bottom boughs of the tree.

"The tree is only a foot tall, Magic, and it's not like you have a dog running around getting tangled up in the lights." Rob snorted. "This is an easy job."

"Let me guess." Noticing his friend's reference to a dog's antics with holiday lights, Mark chuckled. "Sassy is a pain in the neck when your family tries to put lights on the Christmas tree."

"Sassy is a pain in the neck whenever my family tries to do anything." Rob emitted a long-suffering sigh, as Mark wound the lights around the middle of the tree. "She is a sweet dog, but she is as dumb as a log. It's hopeless. You try to scold her for ruining something, and she just looks at you with these huge, pitiful brown eyes that assure you she has no clue that whatever she just did has wrecked your day and that all she wants is a pat on her stupid head. Then you end up giving her one even though she doesn't deserve it."

"I can't believe your family didn't name her something more appropriate like Dopey." Mark grinned as he finished wrapping the lights around the top of the tree. "Were you trying to be ironic?"

"No," answered Rob, taking boxes of shiny ornaments out of the shopping bags. "We just didn't realize that Sassy was the dimwit of her litter when we bought and named her. Anyway, we didn't want to name her after a Seven Dwarf. That's not very creative."

"Creativity in naming isn't always for the best," Mark stated somberly, as he unpacked a rotund, rosy-cheeked Santa and hung him on a branch. "I went through high school with a girl called Rain, and rumor had it that she would never forgive her parents for foisting that moniker on her."

"Rain," repeated Rob, all derision, while slipping a snowflake ornament onto a bough. "That's almost as catchy as precipitation, as far as names go. Did she have a brother named Snow?"

"Nah, she was an only child, so her parents couldn't saddle another kid with their unfortunate choice in names." Mark slid an angel onto another branch. "Of course, Rain tried to free herself from the burden of her birth name as soon as possible. The day she turned eighteen, she had her name legally changed to Laura."

"At least she didn't commit suicide as a lesser person might have," remarked Rob, hanging a nutcracker on the tree. "I admire her resiliency. Maybe her life will be filled with sunshine despite the stormy start her parents gave her."

"Puns aren't funny, and neither is being morbid." Reproachfully, Mark shook his head as he removed an elf that seemed to be busy making a toy in Santa's workshop from one of the ornament boxes. Deciding that it was time to change the subject, he added, "Isn't it weird how no elves are ever shown cramming coal onto Santa's sleigh?"

"Such a question comes from the mouth that just finished accusing me of being morbid." Rob clicked his tongue in rebuke as he placed a few more ornaments on the tree. "Mark, you know nobody ever gets their kid coal for Christmas. They don't want to inflict that psychological trauma on their child, or to have to deal with the mess coal would make in their beautifully decorated living room."

"That's not true." Mark slipped the elf onto a vacant bough. "One of the boys on my Pee Wee team got coal for Christmas, and he was never right in the head afterward. He became a drug addict and a high school dropout, but he wasn't a bad boy when we were Pee Wees."

"Of course not." Rob's lips twitched upward scornfully, as he placed an angel, her hands folded in prayer, on the highest branch. "There's no such thing as a bad boy. Disrespectful, yes. Rebellious certainly. Deviant maybe. Potentially even homicidal. But not _bad_."

"I'm talking about how somebody's life got ruined." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "Would it kill you to be a tad sympathetic instead of a ton sarcastic for once?"

"Look, Mark, people's lives don't just get ruined most of the time—normally, it's people making bad choices that destroy their own lives." Eyes narrowing, Rob lifted the tree carefully, positioned it on the desk, and plugged the cord for the lights into the electrical socket. Instantly, a hundred white lights burned on the tree, glittering off the ornaments, and reminding Mark of the stars that blazed in the obsidian sky outside their window. "I have sympathy when people lives are damaged by circumstances beyond their control, but when they make poor decisions and expect to be coddled instead of held responsible for their actions, I feel contempt or righteous indignation. It can be satisfying to blame the parents for ruining their kid's life, but if that kid is an adult, he really wrecked his own life, and the sooner he figures that out, the sooner he can begin getting it back on track."

"Maybe you're right." Biting his lip, Mark hesitated, and then pressed, "Do you ever feel guilty for having two parents who love you when some children don't have even one parent who isn't abusive or neglectful?"

"Sometimes," admitted Rob after a moment's pause, "but that just makes me more determined not to fail, because with all the advantages I've had, there's no excuse for me being anything less than successful."

"We're going to be successful and happy." Taking advantage of an opportunity to remind his excessively driven roommate to lighten up every once in awhile, Mark clapped Rob on the shoulder. "Don't forget to smile during your pursuit of greatness. Happiness is an important part of success."

"I know." Rob smirked. "That's why I'm always a bundle of joy and optimism."

"Ah, I must have been thinking of a different cynical Rob McClanahan whose motto is 'if it isn't sarcastic, don't waste your breath saying it.'" Mark gasped in mock embarrassment. My mistake. How awkward."

"It wasn't until you said that." Rob rolled his eyes. "Only the most socially impaired actually comment on how awkward a situation is, because that's even worse than complimenting someone by telling them their belly is as plump as a pig's."

"Even that is better than beginning a speech with the words 'I don't care whom I offend by doing this.'" Mark's lips quirked. "Seriously, why not just open with a declaration that you'll be switching to robot friends as soon as they're invented to avoid all contact with humans and pesky emotions?"

Rob opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted before he could start to speak by a knock on their ajar door.

"It's some of your robot friends arriving right now," Rob quipped.

"Come in," shouted Mark to whomever was outside their door, wrinkling his nose at Rob's remark.

"A mini Christmas tree!" Rizzo called out jovially, pausing in the threshold to admire the new decoration. "Very nice touch. Gives the room a home away from home feel."

"Get a move on, simpleton." Phil Verchota prodded Rizzo into the room as if he were an errant sheep. "It's just a Christmas tree. Even in a place as primitive as Boston, I'm sure you've seen one or two before."

"Use words next time." Rizzo gave Phil a retaliatory shove as the Minnesotan forward entered the hotel room. "Jerk."

Listening to this, Mark stifled an impatient groan. Rizzo and Phil waged a perpetual insult war, hurling all sorts of invective at one another every time they met inside the locker room or outside of it. Being an accomplished scholar, Phil had the high ground when it came to an extensive array of demeaning terms, but Rizzo unquestionably won the volume battle.

"If my mom were here, she would wash both your mouths out with soap," announced Bill Baker, walking over to stand beside his best friend, Phil.

"She would be lucky if she could get Rizzo to stop talking long enough to put a bar of soap in his big mouth." Silky snorted as he, too, appeared in the hotel room, causing Mark to wonder how many teammates he and Rob would be expected to host tonight.

Perhaps Rob was thinking along the same lines, because he demanded, "What's this—a Christmas party? Because I don't remember sending out invitations to any of you idiots."

"We're gate crashing." Bob, leaning heavily on Morrow's shoulder, hobbled into the room. "What's the big deal? You have all the decorations up, so, obviously, you were expecting company."

"Bob, sit down," commanded Mark, pointing at his bed. "You shouldn't be on that leg more than necessary."

"Give it a rest, Doc," Bob scoffed, but he allowed Morrow to escort him onto the bed. "I'm not an invalid. I've just got a broken ankle."

"I know that." Calmly, Mark nodded. "I also know that you'll heal faster if you don't overexert yourself."

"A Kent tournament isn't going to overexert me," grumbled Bob.

"Way to let the cat out of the bag." Rizzo glared at Bob.

"It was taking you a century to get to the point," retorted Bob, chin jutting out stubbornly.

"Mark and Robbie." Rizzo focused his attention on them for the first time. "We need another pair for our Kent tournament. Would you be interested in playing?"

"We're in," Rob, as eager to accept a challenge as ever, responded without so much as glancing at Mark to confirm this. "What is the prize for winning?"

"Bragging rights." Rizzo shrugged. "We're broke amateur hockey players, Mac. We can't afford anything more expensive than that."

"Lame." Rob sounded genuinely disappointed. "My first grade teacher handed out better prizes for winning the spelling bee, and her idea of a grand prize was a sticker with a gigantic smiley face on it."

"You don't need to worry about how pathetic the prize is, Mac," teased Bill. "It's not like you're ever going to win anything."

"You're clearly a loser jealous that I'm such stunning winner." Haughtily, Rob lifted his nose in the air. "My parents warned me I'd meet people like you in college."

"All right, let's get down to business." To capture everybody's attention, Rizzo clapped his hands. "For the first round, we'll have Mark and Rob up against Bob and Ken, while Silky and I beat Phil and Bill into next week. Then the winners will face each other while the losers have a consolation game. Everyone got that?"

"What pathogens do you think are in Lake Placid's water?" Silky shot Rizzo a wilting glance. "You must believe they're really powerful to make us all dumber than President Carter overnight."

"No need to get testy." Rizzo waved an impatient hand. "Okay, everybody, agree on a sign with your partner and then let's get started."

"What sign do you want to use?" whispered Mark, bringing his head close to Rob's. He figured that he would let Rob have the honor of devising their signal not only because that would be a constructive outlet for the other young man's competitive urges, but also because Rob's mind was delightfully devious at such things, always managing to invent some physical or verbal cue that never failed to take an opponent unawares.

"If one of us gets Kent, we'll ask Bill whether he sees himself driving a Ferrari or a Mercedes-Benz five years from now," Rob murmured into the shell of Mark's ear, his breath tickling the skin.

"Very witty." Mark's eyes glistened with a combination of approval and amusement, since, as Bill was one of the more promising NHL prospects on the team, it was common for others to torment him by speculating on what high-end vehicle he would be zooming about in a few years.

"Ready to be annihilated?" taunted Bob, as Mark and Rob approached the bed where he was sitting with Morrow.

"I don't have to be prepared for something that's never going to happen," Mark countered, falling into the old habit of exchanging casual banter with Bob as he had ever since they were Pee Wees. "What a waste of energy."

"Pride goes before a fall, Mark," Bob snickered, "and I happen to be an expert at making people fall."

"You're a terror," observed Mark dryly, thinking of some of Bob's favorite defensive tactics: kicking opposing forwards' skates out from under their feet and yapping a stream of insults at larger players (and most players were larger than him, since he was only about Mark's size, and Mark would never be confused with a giant). "For years, I've seen that in action."

"Everyone has got to have battle scars of some kind," Morrow put in, as he finished shuffling the cards and held them out to Rob, who was sitting next to him. "Cut, please."

Deftly, Rob did so, and then presented the deck to Morrow to deal. Soon, they all had the appropriate number of cards and were picking up and slamming down cards from the ever-changing supply in the middle of the bed, trying to get four of a kind. Neither of the cards—four and six—that Mark currently held two of were showing any signs of cropping up, and Rob, who had covertly scooped up three nines since the start of the game, was having no luck with finding that final, elusive card, so Mark decided to devote most of his energy to watching Bob and Morrow for signals that indicated they had gotten Kent. After all, if he could call Kent on either of them before their partner did, that would be just as much of a victory as if he had gotten Kent himself and Rob had called it before their opponents did…

As this thought occurred to him, he saw Bob's fingers flit up to his forehead to brush a lock of flyaway straw hair behind his earlobe. Mark had been friends with Bob for too long no to realize that Bob only found hair in his eyes troublesome when he was doing some supposedly secret sign, so he said swiftly, "Kent on Bob."

"Smooth, Bob." Morrow laughed as he collected the cards and returned them to the box. "Really subtle. You should consider becoming a commando."

"Only if I get to rescue the hostages in Iran." Bob scowled. "Anyway, if you had been watching me, you might have seen my gesture before Mark did."

"Maybe you shouldn't have made your gesture while I was busy changing cards." Morrow shrugged. "Just a tip."

"You have two eyes," Bob pointed out, rolling his. "Next time, you can use them to see two things at once so we can win, okay?"

"Hate to break it to you, but you weren't going to win with that signal." Mark shook his head. "I've seen you use it ever since we were little. You desperately need a new one."

"Or perhaps I just need to get a new friend," mumbled Bob, who was never a particularly gracious loser.

"Oh, please." Mark waved a dismissive hand. "Who will listen to you chatter on about nothing for three hours if I don't?"

He and Bob had always been friends of the opposites attract stripe. Bob appreciated the fact that Mark listened patiently to all of his excited babbling and angry rants, while Mark enjoyed being in the presence of someone who didn't expect him to talk any more than he wished and who made it more difficult for strangers to notice that Mark wasn't much of a talker. Mark scored goals, and Bob made him feel fearless when he did so, trusting that Bob would be able to protect him from any opposing team's attempts at vengeance. It was a peculiar friendship, but a strong one that had only grown more durable with the tests of time.

"Going to crush Bill and Phil for me?" Rizzo, who with Silky had apparently lost to Bill and Phil, crossed over from Rob's bed to pat Mark exuberantly on the back.

"And me," Silky added, taking the place that Rob had just vacated.

"We'll do our best." Mark grinned as he rose to give his spot to Rizzo. "Not being a psychic, I can't make promises about the future."

"He's just being modest." Rob tossed over his shoulder to Rizzo as they walked across the room to join Bill and Phil, who were waiting for them on Rob's bed. "It's a bad habit I'm trying to break out of him. Of course he's going to win. He's Magic."

"Not even Magic is going to help you win, Rob." Phil shuffled the cards, making a fan between his fingers. "You're so hopeless that you totally cancel out his brilliance."

"Is that a challenge to me?" Mark arched an eyebrow as he cut the deck Phil extended to him and then returned it to be dealt. "I thrive off competition, you know."

He did. Maybe not as much as his roommate, whose love of engaging in and triumphing over challenges bordered on the insane, but his definition of fun was skating fast, scoring a ton of goals, and winning. That was as strong an example of competitiveness as any, as far as Mark was concerned.

The cards had been dealt, and they were all focused on accumulating four of a kind, while watching their opponents for any signs that might indicate that the competition had gotten Kent. Apparently tired of waiting for Kent to come to him or Mark, Rob decided to go into attack mode: baiting Bill.

Shooting Bill, who was sitting across from him a sidelong glance as though to check that Bill wasn't watching him (although what he really wanted to do was goad Bill into studying him intensely), Rob caught Mark's eyes and then itched his neck.

"Kent on Robbie," shouted Bill, who was too clever for his own good and had consequently tripped hook, line, and sinker into Rob's trap.

"Read them and weep, Bill." Smirking, Rob revealed his hand, which contained a ten, two fives, and a seven. "I see no four of a kind, do you?"

"Nice going, Bill." Phil snorted as he put away the cards. "You fell right into the idiot's trap. I thought you were sharper than that. You're such a disappointment as a friend."

"Can it," snapped Bill, kicking Phil in the shin. "When I want your opinion, I'll rattle your cage. Anyway, it's not fair that Mark and Robbie won a Kent tournament without once actually getting Kent. That's like winning the Triple Crown without mounting your horse."

"Sour grapes." Indolently, Rob pushed back his cuticles. "Mark and I don't make the rules. We just exploit them."

"People hate lawyers because they pass along amoral tendencies like that to their children," Phil remarked tersely. "I hope you know, Mac, that every time you open your mouth to say something like that, you make it a little harder for lawyers everywhere to be seen as anything better than sharks."

"Sharks are majestic and tragically misunderstood creatures." With exaggerated solemnity, Rob threw his palm over his heart. "They are victims of slander and libel. No matter what the shark smear campaign says on the contrary, the fact remains that you are more likely to get struck by lightning than to get attacked by a shark."

"You know more useless facts than anyone I've ever met," muttered Bill, as everyone began to trickle out of the hotel room, the tournament over and the bragging rights securely in Mark and Rob's possession. Not that Mark planned on using them too much. That would just be obnoxious.

Once everybody had drifted out to return to their own rooms for the night, Mark asked Rob, "Now are you poised to dominate tomorrow's game?"

"Definitely." Rob's eyes gleamed with the light of tomorrow's challenge. "I'm feeling a hat trick coming on."

"A hat trick is nice for someone of your limited abilities, but I can one-up that." Mark nudged his roommate in the shoulder, aware of how much Rob valued the competitive dynamic in their friendship. The constant struggle to skate more quickly or shoot more accurately than the other was just another way that they improved each other as line mates. Making another player better was as much about providing healthy competition as it was about offering nourishing support. "I'm thinking I'm going to score four goals tomorrow."

"That will happen in your dreams maybe." Rob elbowed him in the ribs. "You'll be lucky if you get so much as an assist tomorrow."

"You should talk," volleyed back Mark without missing a beat. "I don't believe you've had a hat trick in your life."

"Just observe how I've perfected the art of the hat trick tomorrow." Rob offered his most confident smile. "Then your opinion will change pretty rapidly."

"Whatever builds your self-esteem." Grinning, Mark thought that he actually wouldn't be surprised if Rob McClanahan scored a hat trick in tomorrow's game. He was playing better every day, as well as coming off a dazzling surge of twelve points in ten games that might have impressed even Herb. With records like that, their team had the potential to truly shine at this tournament, Mark told himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Last Laugh

The mood in the locker room as Mark stepped out of the shower, towel tied around his waist, was jubilant. They had just finished winning their first game of the tournament, and it was hard to complain about starting a competition off with a victory. It felt like a good omen—like everyone leaving the locker room before a game in the proper order with Jim Craig first and Bah at his heels—and hockey players were a superstitious bunch forever inventing lucky rituals and reading portent in everything.

As the tam toweled dry and changed into their jeans and sweatshirts, the babble focused on the hundreds of small triumphs that had made this victory possible. Their voices rising into the atmosphere like helium balloons, boys hollered across the room, complimenting one another on smooth passes and goals, or asking if someone had seen the strength of their slapshot or the cunning of some speedy maneuver.

In the tapestry of tones, Mark thought that he could not have picked out the thread of a single voice, but he was proven wrong when he clearly heard Rob's piercing yelp as an open water bottle plummeted to the floor, squirting water all over Rob's sneakers and pants, although he should probably have just been grateful to have leapt away from the toppling water bottle swiftly enough to avoid a wet smack in the face.

Frowning down at the now empty and smashed water bottle, Mark tried to piece together what had transpired from the broken plastic fragments that had fallen inches from his feet. Rob, already dressed in his polo shirt and khakis, had been about to put his pads into his duffel bag, and when he lifted them he had apparently dislodged an open water bottle perched precariously on top of them. Yet, conscientious Rob McClanahan would never leave an open water bottle on top of his equipment, nonetheless be dumb enough to forget that he had done so and be genuinely shocked when it dropped, nearly soaking him…

That meant that someone else had done this as a prank, and, eyes scanning the room in search of the culprit, Mark had a keen idea as to whom. Rizzo, wrapped in a baggy scarlet BU sweatshirt and faded blue jeans, was staring intently at Rob's plight and laughing loudly—even more loudly than usual, which was an impressive achievement.

"Rizzo!" snapped Rob, glaring knives at the addressed, as heads throughout the locker room swiveled to fix on him, wondering why he was doing his best to transform the mood from joviality to righteous indignation. "That's not funny. You could have damaged my shoes."

"It's just water." Rizzo's frame was quaking with so much mirth that Mark, arriving at his locker and beginning to slip into a sweatshirt, thought that it was remarkable Rizzo could speak through his amusement at all. Then again, it would be a cold day on the sun before Rizzo experienced any difficulty in talking. "And it's just a harmless joke. You've heard of them before, haven't you, Mac?"

"Yeah, I've heard of them before." Mark, busy zipping the fly on his jeans, did not have to turn to see the scowl his roommate was riveting on Rizzo. He could hear it as ringing as a trumpet in Rob's tone. "I hope your parents bought you a handsome tombstone for Christmas, because that's what you'll need after I play a harmless joke on you."

Exhaling gustily, Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, asking himself, for the millionth time this month, how he had come to be the only sane player on a team of lunatics. As witty with words as he was, Rob found practical jokes more insulting than hilarious. Sarcasm, in Rob's opinion, was a riot, but pranks were low brow and just not funny. Since Mark preferred calm to chaos and possessed a rather dry sense of humor, he didn't mind having a roommate whose jokes tended more toward the verbal than the practical. If it meant that he never had to worry about discovering a frog between his sheets, he was glad to share a room with somebody who had a penchant for hinting that his shot wasn't as great as he thought it was.

The problem with Rob wasn't that he had no sense of humor (Mark could attest to the fact that he had a very twisted one), or even the wrong sense of humor. It was that he refused to be amused by the proclivity of pranks inflicted upon him in the locker room. Instead, he lost his temper at the perpetrator, and the hilarity of his overreactions spurred other players to make him the punchline of their practical jokes. Then, in a vicious cycle, the more players pranked Rob, the more epic were his explosions…

If only Rob would learn to laugh when a prank was more hurtful than funny, or just suffer in silence when amusement could not be feigned—as Mark had mastered that art his first few weeks at Wisconsin when everyone whispered just loudly enough for him to hear that he was only on the team because his father was coach, and he had been the brunt of pranks more malicious than hilarious and intrasquad checks that turned his ribcage black and blue with bruises—all their lives would be much easier. After all, Mark suspected that the abuse at Wisconsin had ceased as much because he had proven that he could take a joke as because he had shown that he could play hockey. Hockey players were like a pack of wolves; if they sensed blood, they would come in for the kill.

"Was that death threat directed at me?" Rizzo gasped, dark eyes expanding comically.

"No," scoffed Rob, chin jutting out, "it was meant for the person next to you dancing the disco."

"What a relief." Chuckling, Rizzo glanced around him. "Oh, wait, there is nobody around me doing the disco."

"Wow." Rob rolled his eyes. "I guess I've got to get up before noon if I want to trick you. I'll remember that for my revenge."

"Let's put an end to all this talk of revenge," Ken Morrow interjected serenely before Rizzo could reply. "It doesn't add to team unity, and, Robbie, I think you need to calm down a bit."

"Thanks for the suggestion, Ken," answered Rob in the sugar-spun manner he always assumed when he was about to say the most biting thing in the politest fashion. "You can file it where the sun doesn't shine, though, because I think you need to stop sticking your big nose in other people's business."

Ken, many people's friend but no one's punching bag, was not about to apologize for attempting to break up a quarrel, although he was too level-headed to be drawn into his own argument with Rob. Meanwhile, one glance at Rob's stony face made it plain that he was not ready to make nice to anyone in the locker room, and, if anything, Ken's comment had only hardened his heart.

The tension in the room mounted with every second the stalemate between Ken and Rob lasted. Chomping meditatively on his lower lip, Mark considered intervening to get his line mate to play nicely with the other boys. Normally, because he put his foot down so rarely, Rob was willing to at least listen to him if not accede to his demands, and if he promised to let Rob determine the strategy for their next ten face-offs as long as Rob stopped arguing immediately, he was confident that Rob would accept the bribe as readily as a child would a sundae.

When they had become line mates, one of the first things that Mark had discovered about Rob was that the left-winger was obsessed with face-offs and would harp on about them until he was blue in the cheeks if given half a chance. In Rob's view, face-offs were an unappreciated but vital component of the game, because, as he pointed out whenever he had an opportunity, you couldn't score unless you got the puck, and face-offs were the most reliable way to attain the puck...Yes, Mark concluded, face-offs would be the perfect incentive to get Rob to tone the attitude down by about twenty decibels, and he was just opening his mouth to offer his deal to his roommate when Buzz Schneider spoke up.

"You know, guys, I saw a grill just down the street," remarked Buzz, giving his warm smile which could probably have melted the conflict in Afghanistan. "I bet they cook up some tasty burgers. We could head over to buy some beer and burgers to celebrate our win."

"That's a wonderful idea," Janny enthused, his eagerness making it obvious that he was trying to fill the air with pleasant words before Rob could resume any of the two spats he was waging, and Mark thanked God that there appeared to be just enough peacemakers on the team to prevent homicide from being committed in the locker room today.

"Yeah, we'll have a great time." Rizzo, his disagreement with Rob forgotten as quickly as last month's headlines, strode over to pound Buzz excitedly on the back. "A magnificent start like this to a tournament needs to be celebrated in style, that's what I always say."

"And nothing says classy celebration like a bad burger joint." All derision, Rob snorted. "That's what I always say."

"Come on, Robbie!" exclaimed Rizzo, all heartiness. For a second, he moved as if to clap Rob on the shoulder. Then he seemed to realize that the gesture would be as welcome as a blizzard in July and kept his hands to himself with a visible effort. "You know you want to get a burger with us."

"If you had written me that invitation, I would have used it as manure for my mother's begonias." Rob titled his nose in the air. "I wouldn't eat a burger with you unless it was a specific ransom demand made by someone who had kidnapped a family member or close friend."

"I'll keep that in mind for when I'm truly desperate for your company." Rizzo shrugged, and then waved at the door, saying, "Let's get a move on, everyone. If we hurry, we might make it in time for happy hour. Happy hour is always a perfect way to celebrate a great win."

As the team trickled out of the locker room, Mark walked over to Rob, who was sitting in his stall, fiddling with his left shoelace.

"The loops are uneven," muttered Rob by way of explication as Mark joined him, plopping onto the vacant stall to Rob's right.

With effort, Mark confined himself to a mental eye roll at this explanation. He was aware that shoelaces were one of the thousands of things Rob was fastidious about, insisting his laces always be double-knotted to reduce the odds that they would come untied, and that the loops not be long enough to run the risk of tripping him. However, this obsession with the loops being even with one another was a new and frankly weird one.

Reminding himself that Rob dealt with unpleasant emotions like stress and pain by focusing on details no matter how inconsequential, Mark responded, "All right. I'll wait while you get them even. Then we can go over to the grill together."

"I'm not going to the grill." The muscles in Rob's throat tightened visibly. "I thought I made that clear to anyone whose IQ didn't begin with a negative sign. For heaven's sake, even Rizzo grasped that and if one of his brain cells died, the other would perish from loneliness within the hour."

"I'm not going to let you sulk here by yourself." Sternly, Mark shook his head, even as he noticed what a disconcerting role reversal it was for him to be urging a friend to socialize when, typically, he was the one who craved solitude after a long day and had to be dragged from his shell by a more gregarious companion. There was a difference between choosing to go off by yourself and being lonely, and between exiling yourself and feeling excluded, though. Mark was afraid that if Rob stayed behind instead of going to dinner with the team, he would only feel lonelier and more excluded. Rob was not going to believe he was an outcast if Mark had anything to do with it. "You're going to come to dinner and have fun, since I know you well enough to understand that's what you really want to do."

"If you know anyone well enough to read basic body language, you'd realize that's the last thing I want to do right now." Rob folded his arms around his chest in a cocoon. "I just want to be left alone for awhile, Mark. Is that too much to ask?"

"Yes, because I'm never going to leave you alone." Mark's eyes locked on Rob's. "I might give you time to yourself, but I'm not going to leave you alone."

"Sticking to me like glue won't make me want to come to the grill," grumbled Rob. "If that's your grand plan, it's going to backfire faster than a faulty engine."

"The team expects you to come." Mark felt as if his tongue was swimming in corn syrup: like the words he wanted to use were rolling off his tongue in an indecipherable language. "Don't disappoint them."

"What about me, huh?" Rob was gritting his teeth; Mark could hear that in every strangled syllable. "Am I supposed to just forget that I have feelings and show up to dinner as if they haven't been hurt?"

Mark massaged his temples. This was the price Rob paid for his passion, for his trademark intensity on and off the ice. Rob felt everything, so he could be brilliant. Rob felt everything, so it pained him. Not that his emotions got in the way of his success. At least, Rob didn't think so, and, to be honest, Mark didn't either, or at least not as often as some people thought. Like Mrs. McClanahan, who always seemed to be chiding her son over the phone for pushing himself too hard, for taking crazy chances, for letting things matter too much, and for losing his carefully measured distance from a situation.

Mark didn't always disagree with Mrs. McClanahan's perspective, and sometimes, when Rob's impulsiveness had given him a bad fright or Rob's intensity became positively scathing, he wished that he could scold Rob, too, but, as a teammate, he had to find another way to let his friend know he had done too far, so he soothed him, made comments designed to get under his skin like splinters, or even deliberately flouted Rob's wishes. Anything to break him free of sorrow or frusturation. Anything to let him know _Hey, what you did then was stupid_.

Mostly, though, he kept his fears for Rob to himself, because all Rob's burning desire for justice, his reckless courage, his hunger for victory, and his obstinate refusal to accept defeat were what made him Rob. He wouldn't be Rob without his passion. Ultimately, Mark understood and respected that.

"Nobody on this team wants to hurt you," murmured Mark. "Rizzo was trying to have a good laugh at your expense, but if he realized that putting water on top of your pads was going to really upset you like this, he would never have done it. He's your annoyingly over-talkative friend, so he would never want to cause you any pain. He loves all people, including you."

"I can't believe you're defending him." Rob pulled his knees to his chest and cupped his chin in his palms. "If you're siding with him, you really have left me alone even if you're sitting beside me."

"No." To his own ears, Mark's voice sounded like a frayed string in an unraveling tapestry, because he would do anything—cross oceans or swallow pride—to keep this team intact, and it was ripping itself to shreds instead of rejoicing after a triumph. "There are no sides on this team. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

"Then tell the other guys to stop playing tricks on me." Rob looked like a statue. Like one of those marble warriors in the ancient Greece section of a museum: strong, focused, and completely expressionless. Mark reached for his friend's shoulder and touched it with one hand. Like marble, Rob didn't move. "It was funny the first thousand times they did it, but now the joke is getting stale, and my patience has evaporated."

"Pranks are a fact of locker room life, Robbie." Mark sighed. "The angrier you get about tricks, the more people will think that you're a hilarious target for their next practical joke. You have to learn to grin and bear pranks, because when you flip out, you just make things worse for yourself."

"That's easy for you to say," snarled Rob. "I bet you've never been pranked in your life, because you're MVP Magic Mark, but me, I'm always picked on since I like to make sure my equipment works, I read books without pictures, and my family apparently has too much money to be decent people. I had to put up with it freshman year at the U until I slipped a color-coded schedule into Don Micheletti's locker so he could arrive at practice on time for a change. After that, Don figured I wasn't a snob, after all, so he told his older brother Joe to get everyone to lay off me. Nobody was going to argue with the captain, because even Herb liked Joe as much as he can like any player, and so I wasn't bothered more than anyone else after that, but if I hadn't placed that schedule in Don's locker, I sometimes wonder if the abuse would have lasted forever."

"The first few weeks of college hockey were miserable for me, too." Mark could feel a fluttering feather at the back of his throat, and he swallowed it with difficulty. "Everyone thought I was on the Wisconsin team because Dad was the coach, and they really pounded into me, hoping to get rid of me. I'd try to tell myself a million times that it wasn't personal since they didn't even know me, but it still hurt because it felt like they didn't even _want_ to know me. All I could do was just keep playing hockey as well as I could, no matter how hard they checked me, and not act pained by even their most vicious pranks. I knew that if I acted like I was wounded, they would lunge in for the kill."

"You're so steady," said Rob softly. "I just can't deal with pranks without losing my cool."

"That's because you have a spark inside you." Mark smiled slightly. "Everyone can see it burning, and sometimes they'll try to put it out, but they won't succeed."

"Maybe." Rob hesitated, and then went on slowly, as if he were testing the size and shape of each word in his mouth before verbalizing it, "I may have a spark blazing inside me, but I need sturdy, solid walls to keep it from being snuffed out."

"Then I'll be your walls," promised Mark, holding his hand out to Rob, and feeling relieved when his friend's fingers slid between his own. "Ready to go to dinner now?"

"Yep." Smirking, Rob rose and led the way out of the locker room. "The food will be terrible, and the company worse, but let's eat, drink, and be merry. After all, we did just win the first game of our tournament."

Glad to have Rob walking with a purpose again, because Mark always thought of Rob as a verb—always in motion—rather than as a noun, so it felt wrong to have him staying still and hunched in on himself, Mark grinned as they hurried down the corridor toward the doors to the outside wintry world.

"Look, Mark," Rob said awkwardly, as they neared the exit, "I'm sorry for losing my temper again. I know it's not very nice or mature."

"No need to apologize." Mark clapped his companion lightly on the shoulder. "I have a bit of a nasty temper myself. I can't judge you harshly for that without condemning myself in the same breath."

"Please." Rob rolled his eyes as they stepped out of the rink and turned down the street toward the grill Buzz had mentioned. "If you have a bit of a nasty temper, I make a mad ax murderer look as patient as the Virgin Mary."

"I'm serious." Mark stared up at the obsidian sky overhead, allowing his eyes to adjust to the blackness so that he could see the stars as glitter in an overturned bowl, like the view from inside a snow globe. "When I was a kid, I mystified my parents, since I wouldn't make a fuss about something important that they expected me to make a big deal over, but then I'd have a complete breakdown over something minor and stupid. I wouldn't explode because of the little thing. The little thing was just the one too many that I was supposed to tolerate without making a scene. It was just the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, you know. It took me years to even begin to figure out when I should follow my natural inclination to not make a stir and when I needed to speak up about something before I had a total meltdown. And I still have destructive flashes of temper. I mean, you saw me smash my stick in Oslo. Gosh, I was so furious that I didn't know what to say, or even how to speak. Talk about a shameful regression to childish behavior."

"Everybody regressed to childish behavior in Oslo." Rob nudged him gently in the ribs in a gesture that usually meant he believed that Mark was being too harsh with himself. "I myself forgot how to stand up. How embarrassing."

"I guess we'll have to sign a pact one day that we won't blackmail each other with our most humiliating moments." Mark chuckled as they entered the grill and searched the restaurant for their teammates.

"There goes my morally dubious get-rich-quick-with-no-effort scheme." Rob shook his head mournfully as they spotted their teammates crowded around several tables to the rear of the establishment and began wending a path through the packed grill toward the rest of the team. "What a pity I'll have to use my free time tomorrow to devise another one."

"Mark! Robbie!" called Bob Suter, who had watched every moment of the game that he had not been permitted to participate in, flapping his arm in the air like a crow's wing. "I saved you guys seats. I knew you'd find your way here eventually."

Sliding into the wicker chairs Bob indicated, Mark wished that Bob had possessed the foresight to reserve them seats that weren't next to the infamous tricksters Neal Broten and Dave Christian, who were prone to slipping hot sauce into a neighbor's drink while that person wasn't looking and to pulling chairs out from under people when they tried to sit down after returning from the bathroom.

"Hi," Neal chattered, as Mark and Rob joined the table. "We were starting to think that your empty chairs were ignoring us, because they never responded to us when we talked to them. It's awesome to have you here so we can get some proper answers to all our questions, and we won't have to worry about furniture being mad at us or anything."

"Pour yourself some drinks." Dave shoved a pitcher of beer from the center of the table toward Mark and Rob, who used it to fill their mugs. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up."

"Thanks." Rob wrinkled his nose as he sipped his beer. "You look wonderful, too, Dave."

"Better decide on your meals on the double." Neal grabbed two colorful, laminated menus from between the ketchup and barbecue sauce bottles, and then thrust them down the table to Rob and Mark, as Mark finally began to lower his guard. Neal and Dave were pranksters, but they weren't malicious. They could sense when a person couldn't tolerate being the victim of one more prank, and they always knew how to stop their jokes before they went too far. That was why, despite their devilish behavior, they were still much loved by everybody in the locker room. Right now, they were going to cheer Rob up, not push him to the breaking point again, because they knew that was what Rob needed. "The waitress will be back soon, and she's smoking hot, so you don't want to look like a fool in front of her, not knowing the answer to the question of what you want to eat. Of course, she might be used to people being overwhelmed by all the good options on the menu. I mean, I couldn't choose between the bacon cheeseburger and the Hawaiian burger. Both sounded positively mouth-watering, you know."

" I told him that we could each order one, and we'd split our meals in half, so we could each enjoy some of both foods," put in Dave, as Mark decided that he wanted the cheddar cheeseburger and returned his menu to its home between the ketchup and the barbecue sauce.

"Is there anything remotely healthy on this menu?" Rob forehead furrowed as he studied the dinner options in a distinctly unimpressed manner. "Or is everything here cooked to clog the arteries?"

"Just embrace the heart attack," Bob advised cheerily. "Health is overrated."

"Beliefs like that are why the average American has about a cubic yard of thigh fat," declared Rob crisply.

"I don't think we'll have to be concerned about obesity while we're training for the Olympics," Mark pointed out. "With Herb's crazy conditioning regimen, it would be impossible to increase in fat instead of muscle."

"I'm not taking any chances. When you're short, it's easy to become wider than you are tall." Rob pursed his lips and wedged his menu back between the ketchup and barbecue sauce. "I'm going with the chicken salad sandwich. Light meats are healthier than dark ones because they are less fatty."

"You're creeping me out," observed Bob, blunt as ever. "People our age aren't supposed to be worried about nutrition."

"You haven't seen him in action in the grocery store, comparing brands of whole wheat bread to determine which has more fiber," Mark informed Bob dryly. "Robbie is the only person under thirty I know who reads the nutrition facts on labels before he buys the food rather than to kill time while he eats it."

"It's not my fault that I'm the only person under thirty you know who behaves logically," countered Rob. "If other consumers around my age can't be bothered to make educated purchases, they are the ones with a problem, not me."

Before anyone could respond to this assertion, a blonde waitress who looked as though she had just strolled off the cover of a fashion magazine sashayed up to their table.

"What can I get you tonight?" she asked Bob, resting her pen over her notepad and arching her eyebrows prettily.

"Would you recommend the cheesesteak or the barbecue baby back ribs?" Bob gazed inquiringly at the waitress, and Mark wasn't surprised by the question.

Although Bob loved food so much that he would eat anything that was not plainly someone else's territory, he struggled to decide what to order at a restaurant. Often, he polled whomever he was dining with for an opinion about whether he should get a club sandwich or buffalo wings, and, when the table couldn't reach a consensus on what should be his meal, he would turn to the waitress for guidance.

"A lot of customers enjoy the cheesesteak." The waitress shot Bob an appraising glance and then decided he was cute enough for a wink. "For a strong man like you, though, I think the baby back ribs would be more appropriate."

"Thanks for the tip. I'll have the ribs, then." Bob smiled at the waitress, and then gave the table a smug look as if to announce that he was quite the stud chased by all the mares.

"Good choice." The waitress recorded Bob's order and then focused her attention on Rob. "And what can I get you, sir?"

"I'll have your chicken salad sandwich, please," replied Rob, who appeared pleased rather than nonplussed by this formal address. Mark could not envision a time when he would ever feel comfortable being referred to as a "sir" but clearly Rob felt differently, and there was no denying that Rob with his well-groomed appearance and perfectly ironed clothes was the most likely player on the team to be called "sir." He emitted a definite country club gentleman vibe.

"How about you?" The waitress fixed her charming smile on Mark once she had scribbled down Rob's order.

"The cheddar cheeseburger for me, thank you," Mark answered, forcing himself to speak levelly, as though his pounding heart hadn't noticed that this waitress raised the room temperature by about fifty degrees.

"What would you like?" When the waitress, finished taking Mark's order, turned to Dave, Mark felt a combination of relief and loss that reminded him he really needed to overcome his adolescent hormones once and for all.

"One of your Hawaiian burgers, please." Dave offered the waitress his most devastating roguish grin, but her attention was already riveted on Neal Broten.

"What can I get you, dear?" she trilled.

"The bacon cheeseburger." Neal managed to blush and squeak at the same time, which would surely be doubly attractive to any lady. "Please and thank you."

"You squeaked," Dave taunted Neal as soon as the waitress disappeared to deliver their order to the kitchen. "Were you asking if she would be the Minnie to your Mickey?"

"Shut up." Scowling, Neal gulped his beer. "You're just jealous that she called me 'dear.'"

"I'm not." Dave chewed on the ice in his beer between words. "I know she only called you that because you look like you're about twelve. She'll probably bring you out the kiddie size of the Hawaiian burger."

"He does have a fair point, Neal," added Bob, snickering. "I bet you've never had to shave before in your life."

"How dare you insult me like that?" Neal's eyes widened indignantly, and his voice squeaked again, prompting a round of guffaws at the table. "If it weren't for Herb's ridiculous no-beard rule, I'd be sporting a mountain man beard to rival the one Verchota grows in the off-season."

"Technically," commented Rob, who was a master at identifying technicalities, "Herb doesn't have a no-beard policy. He has more of a no-new-growth policy wherein you can't develop a beard or moustache if you didn't have one at the start of the season, but if you did have one, it is protected under a sort of grandfather clause. That's considerable progress in the civil liberty department when you remember that, at the U, he really did have a no facial hair policy."

"I don't care about the legalities, Mac." Neal's mouth twisted in exaggerated petulance. "The point is Herb is cramping my style and creativity. I mean, if it were up to me, I'd have whiskers shaped like traffic cones reaching all the way down to my belly button, and I'd dye them all the colors of the rainbow."

"You should buy a beard like that at a costume store," suggested Dave, as the waitress returned with their meals. Once they had thanked her and she had swished off in a stream of lavender perfume to take another table's order, Dave resumed, "Then you should wear that beard to practice, and see how mad you can make Herb."

"If he gets angry at me, I'll just put on a baffled expression and say I have no idea how all that hair grew in overnight." Neal sliced his burger down the middle and handed half to Dave, who had done the same with his burger, giving half to Neal. Taking a bite out of a burger with pineapple popping out of it, Neal gestured exuberantly. "'Honestly, Coach, it was like Jack and the Beanstalk only with hair on my face. It was terrifying how it all grew in so quickly, but what's even more scary is all the guys talking about how I have to cut it all off with a razor. I'm not suicidal, Coach, so I don't want a razor near my neck, you see. Oh, and the guys keep mentioning puberty, and I'm embarrassed to ask them what that is, so maybe you could explain it to me…'"

"I'm sure Herb will tell you that there are three phrases he never wants to hear from a player." Rob paused between nibbles of chicken salad sandwich to count phrases off on his fingers. "'Jack and the Beanstalk' is the first, 'terrifying' is the second, and 'puberty' is the third. Use all three in one go, and you'll hit the triple jackpot."

"What's the prize?" demanded Neal, chomping away at his burger.

"A lifetime supply of Herbies," Dave quipped through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger.

"In other words, a death sentence." Dramatically, Neal threw his arms into the air. "Perhaps I could have it converted to the electric chair."

"Or the firing squad," Dave suggested.

"Hanging," contributed Mark, starting to feel full, even though he was less than halfway through his cheeseburger. Sometimes, he thought he had the smallest stomach on the whole team, the slowest metabolism, or the deluxe package of both. "You know, if your neck doesn't snap with the velocity of jerking at the end of the rope, you have to wait until you suffocate to die."

"Delightful." Bob chortled. "But not as pleasant as drawing and quartering."

"The guillotine is my personal favorite." Rob smirked. "A body can still move for a second after its been decapitated, because its responding to signals sent out by the brain prior to the beheading. I bet that's why we have zombie stories, but the people in the French Revolution thought the guillotine was a humane form of execution. That has me in stitches every time."

"So many lovely deaths to choose from that I don't want to make my decision too hastily, even if I would never live to regret it," chirped Neal. Then, his attention captured by a television ad for Budweiser that featured a group of young, hairy men rescuing a barge and celebrating with a round of beer, he changed the subject. "Have you guys noticed that all beer commercials feature these big, hairy fellows who are supposed to attract all these ladies, but we never see any women in these beer commercials?"

"Yeah." Mark nodded sagely. "Ladies don't care for boasting, so they've gotten tired of the men slapping each other on the back and gloating, 'We sure saved that barge, didn't we?' That's why all the women have abandoned our hairy heroes."

"Don't cry for our heroes, though." Bob snickered. "I'm certain that an hour later, the men will be saying to one another, 'Hey, let's go set that barge loose again!'"

"Meanwhile, real men whom ladies actually find appealing would sit back and say not to worry because the boat is probably insured when they see a random, unmanned barge float by on the way to disaster." Rob drank some more of his beer. "Women are always impressed when guys demonstrate financial savvy. They find it reassuring that, even in this awful economy, there is some smarty out there who can buy them the Victorian with the white picket fence in the nice neighborhood. They want their American Dream to come true, and they gamble that a guy who understands what insurance is will make that happen."

"Business majors have the strangest fantasies." Bob gnawed at his last rib, tossed the bone onto his plate, and eyed the food Mark was no longer eating with a look reminiscent of a puppy at the pound. "Are you planning on finishing that burger, Mark?"

"Nah." Mark shook his head, thinking that it was probably just as well he hadn't consumed his whole cheeseburger, since it most likely contained his daily value of calories in addition to representing a ticket to cardiac arrest. "Help yourself."

"And the fries?" Bob pressed, devouring the remainder of Mark's burger. "Are you going to eat those?"

"Bob, if I stopped eating a couple of minutes ago, you can eat anything you want off my plate without asking." Mark pushed his dish across the table to Bob. "We've reached that point in our friendship, and, frankly, I'd rather see someone eat the food I'm paying for than imagine it getting tossed into the restaurant dumpster."

"You're a great friend." Bob's eyes twinkled as he shoveled fry after fry into his mouth. "Not just because you give me free food, though that certainly helps."

"Between the two of you, you have a regular appetite," remarked Rob, and it didn't require a major disruption of brain tissue to calculate who had the oversized appetite and who had the undersized one. Then, his gaze lit on the barbecue sauce, gleamed craftily, and flickered over to Rizzo, who was holding court to Silky and O.C. at the table behind them, gesticulating wildly with a buffalo wing and proving the kernel of truth behind the old joke about Italians being unable to speak if their arms were tied.

"You know you want to, Robbie," said Neal, beaming, as he detected the locus of Rob's glance.

"What do I want to do, Neal?" Rob arched an eyebrow.

"Shoe check Rizzo, of course." Neal lowered his tone to a conspiratorial whisper, and Mark winced. Shoe checks involved a hockey player slipping under a table to dump a condiment all over a teammate's shoe. As far as pranks went, it was cliché but effectively irritating and humiliating. In other words, it was perfect for Rob's vengeance upon Rizzo. "I think it's a wonderful idea. Even someone as serious as you has to lighten up and laugh sometime. That's what I always tell everyone. I always say that you've got a great sense of humor buried inside you, and one day you're going to show it to the world in an epic prank. That's what I always say."

"Well." Rob's eyes sparkled with mischief as he snatched up the bottle of barbecue sauce from the center of the table. "If I shoe check Rizzo to amuse you, nobody can claim I did it for revenge."

With that, Rob ducked under the table, armed with the barbecue sauce bottle, and crawled under Rizzo's chair. He had poured a river of brown sauce all over Rizzo's white sneakers and slipped back into his seat before Rizzo, apparently feeling the wetness seep through to his socks, exclaimed, "What the heck is on my sneakers?"

"It's just barbecue sauce." Rob smirked. "And it's just a harmless joke. Haven't you heard of those before, Rizzo?"

"You'd better watch yourself, Mac." Rizzo waggled a warning finger. "My revenge may not be swift or particularly inspired, but it will be terrible. I promise you that."


	4. Chapter 4

The Key to Loss

It was after practice the next day when their muscles were already aching with a buildup of lactic acid that the team stood in their pads at the base of Lake Placid's steepest hill. Already developing a stitch in his chest, Mark listened as Herb explained, his breath turning to frost in the wintry air, that he expected them all to run up and down the hill twice in their equipment, just as they had done at the beginning of practice several hours ago.

"Get a move on!" Herb clapped his hands brusquely. "The sooner you start, the earlier you'll finish. The faster you go, the quicker you'll be done."

Clenching his jaw as he gazed up at the top of the hill that now appeared miles away, Mark told himself, _When something you don't want to see is looming before you like Everest, two things can happen. Fear can cut through you like a sword, or it can become your backbone. Either you fall apart and sob, or you forge on ahead to do what you have to do. Guess which one is better and braver. _

As the team broke into a run while Herb remained at the foot of the hill to caustically critique everyone's running technique, Mark fell into step beside Rob. Rob was a good running partner, because they had similar strides. That helped them be each other's pacemakers. The friendly competition of keeping up with one another meant neither of them wanted to slow down no matter how much their energy flagged, and if one of them started leaving the other in the dust, it was usually a warning that person was charging too quickly out of the gate and going to fade in the homestretch if a more moderate pace wasn't adopted. After all, this exercise wasn't about going as fast as you could; it was about going as fast as you could sustain, and there was a difference.

"The words hill and hell are spelled the same except for one letter," observed Rob over their pounding feet and hearts. When it came to running and talking, he was of the opinion that the distraction speaking afforded from sore muscles was fair compensation for any breath he wasted talking. If Rob was your running partner, Mark had rapidly discovered, you were going to be drawn into a conversation almost immediately. "I never used to think that was significant, but now I do."

"You think we've found the hill from hell?" Mark asked.

"I think all hills are from hell," muttered Rob, and before he could say anything else, he was drowned out by Herb's yelling.

"Rammer!" Herb belted out, and Mark wasn't exactly astonished that Mike Ramsey was the first target of their coach's ire. Nobody was ever immune to Herb's vicious performance analysis, and everybody was a potential outlet for Herb's infamous temper, but the fact remained that there were some players—like Neal Broten, Ken Morrow, and even Mark himself—who were statistically unlikely to be specifically attacked, and there were others like Rammer, Silky, Phil Verchota, and Bill Baker who seemed to forever walk around with _kick me_ signs only Herb could read affixed to their backs. "Are you tiptoeing up the hill or running up it? Put some spring in your step and some bounce in your feet."

Without missing a beat, Herb lanced into his next victim. "Silky, you're being outstripped by snails! The point of running is to go fast."

Mark stifled an eye roll. Sometimes, it seemed like all Herb ever said to Silky was that he was going too slowly. If it grated on Mark's nerves, he could only imagine how crazy it drove Silky.

"Baker!" Herb rapped out, and Mark wished Rob would say something to spark their conversation, so he could focus on something besides Herb's wrath. "If you were going any slower, you'd be traveling backward. Move with purpose like you want to go somewhere in life."

Then Herb ripped into Phil, who was running alongside Bill, barking, "You run like a lamb, Verchota. Lengthen your stride, and put some distance between those feet."

Apparently, this latest criticism was too much for Rob, who scoffed, "Herb must have smoked _way _too much dope in the Sixties if he thinks that Phil runs like a lamb. Verchota played football in high school, you know, and I've never seen a football player run like a lamb. Like a ram maybe, but not like a lamb."

"I have no clue what you're on if you believe that Herb ever did drugs." Mark shook his head, even though he was grateful for the distraction of casual banter.

"I could see Herb harboring some delusion about it not being drugs if you don't inject." Rob shrugged, as they reached the peak of the hill and began their downward plunge. "I mean, he's the lunatic who is convinced that having four beers is just being sociable, but having just one sip of wine automatically qualifies you for a seat at the local A.A."

"That is comparable to claiming that a cappuccino doesn't have caffeine just because it isn't black coffee." Mark chuckled because everyone on the team had figured out that it was one of Herb's strong but incongruous beliefs that having a couple of beers to socialize wasn't drinking. Drinking, where beer was concerned, seemingly only set in when inebriation did.

"Exactly," agreed Rob, as they approached the bottom of the hill. "Alcoholism, like the power play, is one of those concepts that Herb thinks he understands when really he is as wrong as a giraffe at an opera. He thinks an alcoholic is someone who prefers wine and whiskey to beer when, actually an alcoholic is—get this—somebody who is addicted to alcohol and its effects. An alcoholic won't care if he is sipping the finest champagne or drinking rubbing alcohol out of the bottle as long as he gets his buzz. It is, in fact, a non-alcoholic who is going to be finicky about what he drinks."

"You should explain that to Herb," Mark whispered, as they arrived at the bottom of the hill and started their trek back up it. "Oh, and you should do so in the same condescending fashion you just did to me."

"No, thanks." Rob wrinkled his nose. "Herb, gracious as ever, would just accuse me of speaking from experience."

Mark opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted before he could begin by Herb, who perhaps thought they were too happy or sensed that they were having fun at his expense, snapping, "Johnson! McClanahan! The legs feed the wolf. You hear me?"

With an internal groan, Mark thought that if he never had to hear Herb's wolf analogy again in his life, he would go to his grave content. The legs feeding the wolf was one of Herb's favorite declarations, so every player heard it hundreds of times, but Mark and Rob got to hear it an average of once a day. It was Herb's way of telling them that, no matter how fast they believed they were going, they were still in danger of being overtaken by old ladies hobbling to the grocery store to procure prune juice.

Instinctively, Mark responded to the command to go faster, forcing his throbbing legs to hurry over the pavement just a little swifter, while, beside him, Rob, too, started to run quicker. Both of them, Mark supposed, would have found a way to run faster if their legs were tied together at the knees and ankles should Herb have made it plain that he expected them to do so.

It was hard to act like you couldn't move more quickly when an irascible coach at your heels was snapping that you could. Anyway, Mark would have been too terrified of Herb's reaction to indicate by word or deed that he couldn't do something his coach demanded of him. Mark knew that if he faltered, he would be the recipient of Herb's coldest glare—the one meant to assure whomever it was directed upon that Herb understood precisely how to crush their spirit and leave them cowering amid the remnants of their sanity. Herb was a master of motivating through fear as much because of what was left unsaid in his biting insults as because of what was said, and as much because of what players envisioned he could do to them if he chose as because of any actual punishment he had inflicted upon them. Whatever Herb Brooks said or did, it never failed to leave you with the distinct impression that it was merely the tip of the iceberg in terms of the abuse he could subject you to.

Mark was glad to be yanked out of his musings by Rob grumbling mutinously as soon as they were out of Herb's earshot, "Of course we can hear. In a couple of minutes, people in Albany will be phoning to complain about the disruption of peace."

"I do hate it when Herb shouts about the legs feeding the wolf," admitted Mark, flashing a rueful grin.

"Tell me about it." Rob snorted. "He always makes it sound like he expects us to be the legs, but I don't want to be the legs. I want to be the mouth. It's much easier to practice running the mouth than running the legs, and what is Herb's obsession with wolves, anyhow?"

"They're an apt metaphor for our team, since the strength of the wolf is in the pack, and the strength of the pack is in the wolf." Mark's eyes widened earnestly as they crossed the crest of the hill and began their descent. "Besides, all the best stories are about wolves."

"Obviously." Rob's lips quirked in an ironic twist. "Anything else is sentimental drivel."

"Think about it." Mark warmed to his theme. "There's escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, and taming the wolves."

"Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves, so the wolves eat them and not you," reeled off Rob, his grin edging toward the predatory.

"Running with the wolf pack." Mark was panting now, his skin hot and his breath coming in gasps, a punctuation of exhaustion that made his sentences as choppy as a telegram. "Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist."

Then, finally, they reached the bottom of the hill, Mark's legs feeling as though an elephant had just plopped down upon them.

"Humph." Herb frowned down at the stopwatch in his palm, as Mark and Rob jogged in place, since their legs might have wanted to end this torture, but their racing hearts let them know in no uncertain terms that would be a dumb decision. "A three second improvement over last practice. You can head back to the locker room to change."

As far as expressions of approval went, it was more a brisk statement of fact than a compliment, but Mark clung to it like an oyster to a pearl, embracing the pain that made the beauty possible. From Rob's satisfied smirk as they drifted down the sidewalk to the rink, he could tell that his line mate was doing the same.

"Do you think a three second improvement is statistically significant?" Rob cocked his head inquisitively at Mark, who wasn't as shocked to receive this question from Rob as he would have been to get it from just about anyone else. Rob loved to perform consistently well; he would cringe if anyone regarded his successes as anomalies.

"I think statistics can be manipulated to say anything." Mark shrugged as he nimbly evaded a puddle of black ice on the pavement. "You could probably even find a poll in some newspaper that indicates a solid approval rating of Carter's handling of the crisis in Iran."

"Statistics are as reliable as the person calculating them," corrected Rob. "I'm very honest and dependable. I could create a chart in my daily planner to monitor our progress. Then we'd know what gains are statistically significant and what ones aren't."

Mark didn't doubt for a second that Rob would do this. Already Rob spent fifteen minutes before they switched off their lights for the night frowning down at his planner, checking off the tasks he had accomplished that day and reviewing all the items on tomorrow's itinerary. Often, as he did this, he would provide some commentary on the things he felt he had done particularly well or areas where he believed he could improve. It was simple to figure out based on the number of corrections Rob included in his nightly overview of his performance how successful he judged that day to be.

As such, it didn't require too much mental strain to picture him drawing up a chart in his planner and filling it in every day to keep an eye on their progress and how statistically significant it was. After all, that wasn't much more elaborate than what he was doing already.

Sometimes, Rob's meticulous planning amused and even aggravated Mark, especially because this fastidiousness was offset by extreme, unexpected bouts of rashness, because Rob could do nothing by half measures. Either he was insanely conscientious or else he was madly impulsive. Either he was coldly logical or hotly passionate. Either he sweated the details or ignored them.

Determining which side of the personality spectrum Rob was going to fall on at any given moment felt like a full-time occupation, as far as Mark was concerned, but when he found himself irritated with Rob's meticulousness, he reminded himself of all the notebooks of scribbling his father wrote during games and practices. Rob's daily planner devotion wasn't so different from that, Mark told himself whenever he felt impatience with his roommate's nearly perpetual need for organization well within him, and intelligent people prepared for success instead of expecting to stumble upon it like banging into a table in the dark.

Still, there were times when, discussing the day's triumphs and defeats with Rob—evaluating what they had done well and what they could improve upon in the next practice or game—he would feel a certain distance from himself and discover himself wondering if he and his line mate would end up editing their lives instead of living them.

"Only if it doesn't take too much time for you to make that chart." Mark nudged Rob in the shoulder as they entered the rink and strode down the corridor toward the locker room. "We don't want your performance to suffer because you're too busy tracking it. I mean, it's painful enough to watch as it is. I'm practically considering wearing a blindfold to tomorrow's game just so I don't have to see you play."

"Wear the blindfold if you want," retorted Rob, elbowing him in the ribs as they walked into the locker room. "At least it will offer an excuse for none of your shots going into the net."

"Perhaps I should lend you the blindfold." Smirking, Mark pulled his towel out of his locker and crossed over to the showers to give his burning muscles the freezing shower they craved. "You're the one who needs the excuse for not scoring."

"I have _such _a supportive line mate and generous roommate," said Rob in a voice that positively sagged with sarcasm, as he, too, walked over to the showers with his towel. "No matter how good I am, I could never deserve such an excellent friend."

They showered as their teammates returned from the run in steady trickles of two or three, and, by the time Mark emerged with his towel knotted around his waist, it seemed like everyone except Silky and Rizzo were back.

Winging up to heaven a quick prayer that neither of these BU boys had suffered a heart attack, Mark changed into his street clothes. Then he packed his equipment into his duffel bag and tugged on his jacket, as always sticking his fingers into his pocket to ensure that his key and wallet were still safely tucked inside. He felt the smooth leather of his wallet instantly, but no matter where his fingers roved in his pocket, they did not brush up against the cool metal of his hotel key.

Reflexively reminding himself to remain calm because panicking had never helped anyone find anything, Mark rummaged through his duffel and the pockets in his jeans, seeing only his equipment in the former and a tattered, old bubblegum wrapper in the latter. Supposing that his key might have slipped to the floor while he was changing, he leaned over to search under the bench only to find wads of spat-out gum littering the bottom, and in the crack between his locker and the floor, where he only uncovered a face full of dust that made him sneeze.

"Are you looking for something, Magic?" asked Janny, glancing up from removing his equipment for a shower, his concern obviously generated by Mark's sneeze.

"No, Janny." Steve Christoff rolled his eyes. "He just enjoys looking under furniture for no reason. Everyone needs a hobby, even if it's a lousy one."

"Your name isn't Magic," pointed out Janny. "Don't speak for Mark."

"I can't find my hotel room key," Mark explained before Steve could snap back at Janny. Sliding into a crouch, he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of where else to search for his key. It had, if he hadn't lost his mind as well as his key, been in his coat pocket at the start of practice. Keys could not walk, as they had no legs, so even if the key had somehow fallen out of his pocket, it should have been on the floor somewhere near his locker. For heaven's sake, it shouldn't have been this difficult to locate…

"Stay calm," Buzz ordered in his most tranquil, warm tone, and Mark squelched the snide mouth inside him that commented that this was simple for Buzz to suggest as it wasn't his key that had inexplicably vanished. "Just try to remember where you last saw it."

"If he could do that, it wouldn't be lost," put in Bah. "I reckon he's just going to have to look everywhere he can think of for it, but, if he searches long and hard enough for it, he should find it. I mean, it's not like the key was melted down or anything."

"I remember where I last saw my key." Mark's jaw clenched, because he was determined to prove that, while he was not a neat freak like his roommate, he wasn't an irresponsible slob who endangered both their possessions by leaving the key to their room just strewn around wherever it chanced to drop. "I put it in my jacket pocket along with my wallet before I left my room the way I always do. It was in my pocket when practice started, so I don't understand where it could have gone since."

"Maybe you accidentally left your key in our room," contributed Rob. "The peril of routines is that you aren't always thinking when you follow them, so you can easily leave something important out by mistake without noticing. We could go back to our room and look for your key there, since we aren't having much luck finding it here."

"All right." Mark threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and trailed Rob out of the locker room into the hallway. "I guess that I could have been a bit hungover from last night this morning and not recognized it, but I had only one beer, and it was served in a mug, not a bucket…"

Drifting off, he realized with a spurt of chagrin that he sounded like a drunkard refusing to accept the repercussions for his own inadequacies because surely the bottle was to blame for all of his personal shortcomings.

"Sorry, Mac." Mark gnawed guiltily on his lower lip. "I shouldn't use the fact that I was drinking as an excuse for whatever happened to my key, because that's the lamest excuse ever. It's all about wiggling out of responsibility for something you did wrong by calling attention to another moral failing of yours."

"You're my friend, Mark. I'm not going to be all judgmental because you had one mug of beer and you can't find your key." Rob's hand disappeared into his coat pocket for a moment and then emerged holding a licorice stick, which he thrust into Mark's fingers, adding, "Chew on this. Friends don't let friends resort to cannibalism when there is candy around."

Obediently biting into the licorice instead of his lip as they exited the rink, Mark thought that it wasn't a surprise that Rob had licorice to offer him. Licorice was one of Rob's major indulgences. On long bus rides, he bought a bag whenever the team stopped along the highway, and on planes, he chomped on sticks of licorice during takeoffs and landings as if they were gum. When he packed for trips, Rob's licorice even had a special spot on his checklist to guarantee that it would not be forgotten.

"Thanks." Mark smiled sheepishly as he nibbled on the licorice. "It seems like I still have an oral fixation when I'm embarrassed or nervous."

"What a shocker." Snickering, Rob devoured a piece of licorice. "All hockey players have oral fixations, Mark. Next time you're on the bench, look around the ice and I promise that you'll see at least one player doing something weird with his mouthguard."

Mark was spared the effort of devising a suitable response to this pronouncement by them coming face-to-face with Rizzo and Silky, who were walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, still wearing their hockey equipment.

"Where have you guys been?" Rob arched an eyebrow at Rizzo and Silky. "Everyone else got back to the locker room ages ago."

"Herb decided that Silky's time wasn't impressive enough and made him run up and down the hill two more times." Rizzo slapped Silky on the back as he provided this answer, and Mark winced, thinking that it might be very wise for Rob to draw up his chart, after all. Mark didn't want to have to perform the hill exercise any more than he had to, so he was going to do everything in his power to make Herb deem his progress satisfactory. "I ran with him out of solidarity."

"Ah." Sympathetically, Rob clicked his tongue. "Silky, I guess you've got a new reason to hate Herb, don't you?"

"What?" As if torn from a daze, Silky blinked in bafflement.

"Heaven preserve me from the witless." All impatience, Rob rolled his eyes. "Silky, I hope you won't shoot the messenger, but Herb is right: you are _slow_."

"I was thinking about something else, for your information," growled Silky defensively, his cheeks flaming. "But if we were talking about Herb, I hate him."

"Join the club." Rob tossed a stick of licorice at Silky. "We've got candy, but we haven't hammered out the logo or the motto yet."

"Best of luck with that. Let me know if you need a president." Guffawing, Rizzo clapped his hands. "Well, Silky and I had better get back to the locker room. We need to take a shower before we start to really stink."

"You two always stink," taunted Rob over his shoulder as he and Mark resumed their journey back to the hotel. As Rizzo and Silky faded behind them, he furrowed his forehead at Mark. "Magic, you didn't speak a word during that entire conversation."

"I didn't have anything to say." Mark shrugged. "I figured I wouldn't waste my breath and your time."

"In other words," stated Rob almost gingerly, "you're still fretting about your misplaced key, aren't you?"

"A little," Mark confessed, blushing. "It's just such a mystery what happened to it that it's driving me crazy wondering if I'm mad."

"You need a distraction," ruled Rob in his most intractable tone, and Mark braced himself for whatever impetuous idea—perhaps diving off a cliff—that his line mate would propose to drag him out of his slump, but he was still nonplussed when the other young man went on, "So, did you hear about the new ceiling?"

"Um, no." Completely bewildered, Mark shook his head. "Why?"

"Don't worry." Rob laughed. "It's probably over your head, anyway."

This pun was so painfully corny that Mark couldn't help but chuckle and counter with a bad joke of his own. "Why do nurses use red pens? Because they might have to draw blood."

They continued to exchange puns that got ever worse in quality as they arrived at their hotel, rode the elevator up from the lobby to their floor, and walked down the hallway to their room. However, as soon as they unlocked their door with Rob's key and entered their room, their laughter died on their lips. In the way that an absence—like the hole in your mouth where you had lost a tooth that your tongue inevitably caressed a thousand times a day—could sometimes be more glaring than a presence, they both immediately knew that something was missing from their room. A second later, Mark recognized what it was. The Christmas tree that should have been beaming a bright welcome with its hundreds of ornaments and lights was not on their desk, or, indeed, anywhere else in the room.

"Where the heck did our tree go?" demanded Rob, his voice a cross between the numb and the outraged.

"I don't know." Mark collapsed on his bed, wishing that this were all a nightmare and he would wake up to find that nothing was missing, after all. "Everything is vanishing, and it's all my fault because I lost my key, and somebody else obviously found it and helped himself to our tree. I'm so sorry, Robbie. I just hope nothing else of yours is taken."


	5. Chapter 5

Hero and Sidekick

At the mention of other potentially stolen goods, Rob surged out of his shock into a protect-assets mode. He hurried over to the dresser and began performing a rapid inventory of his possessions, muttering, "Lucky I had my wallet with me, and my watch is still here. I think those are my two greatest valuables."

Deciding that it was time to figure out how much damage had been done by his carelessness, Mark pushed himself off his bed and went over to the dresser. On top of it, he was relieved to see that his watch and brush were still there, although who would want to take somebody else's brush was a mystery to him. He checked the clothing drawers on his side of the dresser, as Rob did the same on the opposite half.

"Nothing of mine is missing so far," reported Mark at the conclusion of his drawer inspection.

"Nothing else was taken from me, either." Rob crossed over to the closet and yanked open the double doors. "I'm going to see if any of our clothes in here have been stolen. Do you want to see if anything is missing from the bathroom?"

"Sure." Mark nodded and entered their bathroom, contemplating dully whether a person who stole toiletries was more or less pathetic than a being who took a Christmas tree.

His eyes flicked over to the right side of the sink, passing over his comb, razor, shaving cream, aftershave, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. Everything of his was still present, which meant that nobody had been creepy enough to steal his bathroom supplies. Now, it was time to see if his roommate had been so fortunate.

Glancing at the left side of the sink, he spotted Rob's comb, razor, shaving cream, aftershave, cologne, toothbrush, toothpaste, Tupperware for storing his false front tooth when it wasn't in his mouth, and deodorant. All of Rob's toiletries were accounted for, too.

Moving over to the shower, Mark tugged back the curtain and saw that the shelf still contained the complimentary and probably ineffectual hotel brand soap and shampoo, as well as the soap and shampoo they actually used to clean themselves.

"Everything is still there," announced Mark, emerging from the bathroom and walking over to the desk.

Resolutely not looking at the spot where their tree had been only hours ago, Mark scanned the desk. All but the Christmas tree seemed to be accounted for: Rob's black, leather-bound daily planner; Rob's copy of _A Tale of Two Cities _with the bookmark neatly tucked where he had last finished reading; Mark's _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ with the page dog-eared to hold his place; the complimentary hotel stationery pad and pens with the hotel name written in curling script. Far from anything being taken, there even seemed to be something metal and shiny added…

"Rob!" he gasped, as he realized that it was his key laying, bold as brass, in the place of honor that had once been reserved for their Christmas tree. "Come here."

"Is something else stolen?" demanded Rob in a rush, lurching across the room to stand alongside Mark.

"No." Shaking his head, Mark pointed at his key. "My key is back, and I definitely didn't leave it under our now missing tree."

"I don't want to think about what this means." Rob's voice was shaky. "Should we go to the police and report we've been robbed?"

"We'd be laughed out of the station if we said that we wanted them to put a detective on the case of the Stolen Christmas Tree." Grimly, Mark pressed his lips together. "Anyway, it would cost more money to run an investigation than the tree is worth, and I'm not going to rob from taxpayers just because someone stole from us."

"Okay. You're right." Rob rubbed his temples. "Contacting the police over this would be as dumb as reaching rock bottom and starting to dig."

"What you suggested wasn't stupid." Mark smiled slightly. "It just would've denied us the fun of solving this mystery for ourselves, Watson."

"Hey!" Rob exclaimed indignantly. "Why do you get to be Sherlock when I'm smarter than you, and you couldn't investigate your way out of a paper bag?"

"I'm the center of our line," explained Mark, tone serious but his eyes agleam with mischief. "Everybody knows the center is the hero, and the wingers are just his sidekicks."

"I'm _so _going to leave you unprotected from the left in your next faceoff." Rob scowled.

"Thanks for the advanced notice." Mark steepled his fingers. "Now, let's get down to business, Watson. What are your first impressions of this case?"

"Well, the first thing that stands out to me is what was taken—the Christmas tree—and what wasn't taken—everything else, in a nutshell." Rob's brows knitted together. "The Christmas tree and the ornaments weren't particularly valuable except for sentimental reasons, so it's doubtful that the thief was interested in money. That assumption is supported by the fact that expensive stuff like our watches was left untouched."

"And the fact that only our Christmas tree was taken suggests that it was the thief's target all along," mused Mark. "That, in turn, indicates the person who broke into our room not only had a specific purpose, but also had to be very familiar with our possessions, so the most likely suspects are people we know and trust—people we've invited into our room."

"In other words, our teammates," Rob summarized briskly, his fingers beating a tattoo on the desk. "A conclusion that is only strengthened by the fact that your key was taken in the locker room. Nobody except our teammates, Herb, Coach Patrick, and Doc go in there. Herb, all his many mental health issues aside, probably wouldn't go to this much trouble to steal a Christmas tree, especially because he likely doesn't even know we have one, and neither would Doc or Coach Patrick. That leaves our teammates, who would probably think it was a hilarious prank to commit petty robbery, as the prime suspects."

"Unfortunately, that is still a long list." Mark sighed. "We need to narrow down our suspects, Robbie. We have to think of which players actually _know _about the tree, and then determine, of those guys, who would be most likely to steal it."

"All the boys at the Kent Tournament we hosted two nights ago saw the tree." Rob snatched a hotel pen from the holder and began scrawling names on the complimentary stationery. "That means Bob Suter, Ken Morrow, Dave Silk, and Mike Eruzione."

"We can eliminate Bob." Mark swallowed the lump of emotions in his throat that threatened to choke him. "He's been one of my best friends since we were Pee Wees. I trust him to protect me on and off the ice. I just know that he would never steal from me or betray me."

For once not cynical, Rob nodded and drew a line through Bob's name, commenting, "That's Bob out of the way, then. Let's think about Ken. Personally, I feel that Ken loves peace and quiet too much to stir up trouble by taking our Christmas tree. Unless he just got a lobotomy, I can't imagine him doing something like this."

"Neither can I," agreed Mark, and Rob cut through Ken's name with a black line. "We're on a roll now. You've known Verchota for four years. Is stealing a Christmas tree his idea of a joke?"

"Not really," Rob replied after a moment's consideration. "He may look like a wild man, but he's too smart to think committing a crime is a good way to get a laugh."

"So let's cross him out, too," said Mark, as Rob sliced through Phil's name with the pen. "How about Baker? Is he the type to confuse theft with a prank?"

"Nope." Rob shook his head and sketched a line across Bill's name as well. "His sense of humor inclines more to the verbal than the practical, because he is an intellectual, after all."

"That just leaves us with our Terrier friends, Rizzo and Silky." Mark frowned down at the list of suspects, which now contained only two names. "Well, I guess that it makes sense that a Terrier would do this, since the victims are a Gopher and a Badger."

"Rizzo definitely noticed our tree." Brown eyes glazed with memory, Rob stared at the wall. "Remember how he stopped in the doorway to fawn over it until Verchota shoved him into the room so everyone else could come in?"

"After you shoe-checked him, Rizzo did promise that his revenge would be terrible," observed Mark. "Maybe his definition of terrible revenge entails robbing our Christmas tree like the Grinch."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it did." Rob glowered. "I thought he was joking when he said that back at the grill, but, apparently, he really is a son of a—"

"Rizzo is a puppy, yes," interrupted Mark calmly, because he found hearing profane and hackneyed insults shooting from Rob's lips about as pleasant as listening to nails scrape against a chalkboard. As far as he was concerned, somebody who was as sophisticated as his roommate should have more articulate expressions of anger and aggravation. "He's also an illegitimate child, and any other cliché term of abuse you were about to hurl at him. Now that we have that satisfying venting of rage out of our spleens, perhaps we could move on…"

"You take all the fun out of life, Mark." In a distinctly undignified and sulky fashion, Rob stuck out his tongue. "Words like that are half the vocabulary of an average hockey player."

"You aren't an average hockey player," Mark reminded him, shrugging. "You can be more original than that, and, when you refuse to be, it is you who takes all the fun out of life."

"Oh, I'm feeling very original right now." Rob's eyes sparkled with the cunning promise of vengeance. "You and I are about to get very creative in our dealings with Rizzo."

Sensing trouble, Mark closed his eyes and murmured, "We're not having this conversation. I'm on a tranquil island in the Caribbean, listening to palm trees sway in the tropical breeze and hearing the gentle music of waves lapping against the beach."

"Wake up." Irritably, Rob tapped him on the shoulder. "The sooner you return from your vacation, the faster you'll be able to hear my plot."

"How tempting," remarked Mark wryly, but he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on his roommate. "Of course, the real appeal is that the sooner I hear your plan, the faster I'll be able to start forgetting it ever existed."

"Don't be rude to your so-called friend." By way of reprimand, Rob elbowed him in the ribs. "Anyhow, I'm thinking that if Rizzo stole our tree—"

"Do we really even have proof that he did, though?" Mark asked, deciding that the impoliteness of interrupting was atoned for by preventing an injustice of a punishment prank perpetuated against a potential innocent. "I mean, when would he have gotten the time to take our tree today? He left practice after we did."

"Did he really?" Far from being allayed by this argument, Rob's suspicions seemed to have been aroused, and Mark, his forehead furrowing, could not comprehend why. "How do we know that?"

"Have your wits gone AWOL again?" Mark rolled his eyes, marveling inwardly that someone raised in the safety of a gated community could be as jaded as Rob was. "We met him and Silky on their way back from running the hill. Herb made Silky repeat the exercise because he was, as usual, too slow to satisfy Herb, and Rizzo explained it all to us. Remember?"

"Yeah, having a better long-term memory than a goldfish, I do, Magic," snapped Rob, who never appreciated having his intelligence questioned. When dealing with Rob McClanahan, it was vital to not forget for even a second that he had a sharp mind and sharper tongue. "Maybe it's your brain that needs a jumpstart, because it hasn't occurred to you that, since Rizzo is our only source for this story, he may very well have fabricated it wholesale to cover his fat ass."

"I don't want Rizzo to be a liar." Mark bit his lip. "Or a thief. I just want him to be the trustworthy, hearty leader we all depend on him to be."

"Stop looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses." Rob snorted. "Start seeing things and people objectively. Now, in the case of Rizzo, we have no reason to believe he was being honest in this instance. When we were in the locker room, nobody mentioned Herb's supposed cruel and unusual punishment of Silky, or Rizzo's heartwarming choice to stick by him through exhaustion and potential cardiac arrest. That's very suspicious, since admirable sacrifices on behalf of teammates and Herb's latest acts of tyranny are regular topics in the locker room. By itself that's not condemning, but combined with the fact that Silky seemed more distracted than tired or furious when we spoke with him about Herb's alleged punishment, we begin to accumulate enough evidence to convict. I mean, what was Silky so distracted about, and where were they if they weren't running up and down that wretched hill two more times for Herb?"

"Taking our Christmas tree." Conceding defeat, Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's the answer to both questions."

"Excellent work." Rob sounded like a teacher whose slowest student had, after months of tedious explanations and examples, grasped a basic fact. "Now that you've finally been persuaded to see the obvious, perhaps you'll listen to my plan without any more dimwitted interjections. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, if Rizzo and Silky stole our tree, it is probably in their hotel room. Since we aren't going to the police about their thievery, we won't be able to get a search warrant, so we'll need to get into their room to recover our tree in another way. I think it would be very fair if you stole Rizzo's or Silky's key in the locker room tomorrow like they took yours today. After practice, I'll invite them to a round of bowling that they'll have to agree to unless they want to arouse suspicions about why they're avoiding me, and you'll make some excuse about how you can't come because you've got an important phone call to make, while really you'll be sneaking into their room to reclaim our tree."

"I shouldn't steal." Firmly, Mark shook his head, well aware that his parents had raised him to be many things, but a thief wasn't among them. "Thou shalt not steal is one of those important precepts everyone is taught as child. It's right up there with thou shalt not commit murder, and honor thy mother and thy father."

"Relax, Mark." Rob held up a placatory palm. "Moses was the first person to break all Ten Commandments at once, and God still welcomed him into heaven, so you should be safe if you only violate one at a time with great anguish."

"Moses only broke the Ten Commandments all at once because he accidentally dropped the stone tablets when he saw his fellow Israelites worshipping a golden calf as if it had delivered them from slavery in Egypt." Unconvinced and untempted, Mark shook his head again. "That's totally different from me deliberately flouting one of the fundamental rules of ethics. I hope that your moral compass eventually points you to that understanding, Mac."

"Your strict honor code would be endearing if it weren't so vexing." Rob exhaled gustily. "Listen, Magic, I'm not asking you to permanently steal Rizzo's or Silky's key. I'm just proposing that you borrow it for at most an hour to take back the Christmas tree they robbed us of. For heaven's sake, you'll have returned the key to their room by the time they get back from bowling with me. I'm not a complete sleaze-bucket, so I wouldn't ask you to do something truly reprehensible."

"I see your point." Deciding that, phrased that way, Rob's scheme didn't sound that awful and even as if it might be the sort of locker room prank Dad would deem hysterical, Mark nodded. "All right. I'll do it."

"Thank you." Rob grinned. "Maybe it won't be so boring being the Watson to your Sherlock, after all."

"What are you talking about?" Mark chuckled. "Like all heroes, Sherlock has all the fun."

"Nah." Rob snickered. "It's Watson, not Sherlock, who is married, so he is the one who gets some."

"It's so adorable that a cynic like you is still naïve enough to assume that marriage is the only way people can get some," teased Mark, patting his roommate on the shoulder.

"I find it traumatizing that someone as innocent and honorable as you seems to understand a vile concept like fornication." Rob's eyes expanded comically. "Of course, I don't suppose that you've ever engaged in it. I have too high an opinion of the female gender to believe that any of them would lower themselves to practice such sordid behavior with an ugly, arrogant jerk like you."

"Leslie says that I'm handsome and humble." Smiling, Mark thought of his beautiful and smart girlfriend back in Wisconsin. "Her opinion of me matters a bit more to me than yours does, I'm afraid."

"Oh, you cut me to the core." Rob offered an obviously feigned gasp of pain, clutching his heart as if he had received a mortal blow, and then pressed shrewdly, "You love her, don't you?"

"I'm not dumb enough to answer such a question when it's posed by a teammate as sarcastic as you." Mark arched an eyebrow. "I find it a tad insulting that you believe I'd fall into such a clear trap, actually."

"Whatever." Rob waved a dismissive hand. "You don't need to answer. The way you say her name is enough proof that you love her."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Torn between confusion and amusement, Mark shook his head.

"Say Ursula," ordered Rob.

"Ursula," a nonplussed Mark parroted.

"Say Elizabeth," Rob commanded.

"Elizabeth," repeated Mark, wondering when his roommate would get to whatever crazy point he had.

"Now." Rob smirked craftily. "Say Leslie."

"Leslie," said Mark simply.

"Can't you hear the difference?" All of Rob's teeth flashed in a triumphant beam. "When you love somebody, you say their name differently—like it's safe and sacred in your mouth."

Convinced that Rob should reserve mushy lines like that for his love poetry to his plainly tasteless sweetheart in Minnesota, Mark groaned, "Honesty, Robbie…"

"Ah, the way you speak my name warms my heart." Rob's smirk was officially too complacent to tolerate. "It's so obvious that you're thinking I'm the annoying friend who always says or does something stupid."

"Close enough." Mark laughed. "Actually, I was thinking you're the annoying friend who has the best odds of making me commit homicide."


	6. Chapter 6

Broken Good

The next afternoon, having won their second game of the tournament, the team, in Mark's definition, was officially on a winning streak he hoped would extend until the end of the tournament. As he pulled on his jeans and sweater after toweling himself dry from him shower, he was so proud of them all and loved each one of them for themselves. He could list each player's scars, recite each one's quirks, and describe every one's idiosyncratic hobbies. On ice, helmeted and in full equipment, he could recognize each player by their distinctive skating stride, and, off the ice, he could be blindfolded and still pinpoint who laughed at whose quip. Their fierce dedication to the sport and absolute faith in one another was always as warm and reassuring as his mother's hand on his back. That was why it hurt so much to steal from a teammate or to imagine a teammate robbing him and Mac.

Standing on tip-toe to reach the top shelf (and reflecting that one of the millions of perks of being a midget in a world designed by towering trolls was that he had developed extremely strong toes in the process of grabbing at things that were practically out of his grasp), he tugged down a plastic bag loaded with assorted candy canes he had purchased at a pharmacy before the game. It was time to begin his mission to distract Rizzo and steal the gregarious BU boy's key.

Wishing himself the fairest of fortune in his scheme and shoving down the pangs in his conscience that accused him of being a thief and a liar, Mark removed a candy cane from the bag, ripped apart the wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. Then, channeling every chatty person he had ever met and doing his best to act as though he was convinced that everybody in the locker room was riveted by every thought that made its long, lonely journey across his mind, he commented cheerily to the team at large, "I love candy canes. They're the best holiday candy ever. They're so sweet, but they've still got this kick to them. Man, they should sell candy canes year round."

"Then they might not be as festive and special, Mark," pointed out Buzz lightly, as he passed en route from the showers to his locker, bundled in a turquoise towel. "Can't have too much of a good thing. Especially if it's candy. That results in serious stomach discomfort."

"You're right. Too much sugar causes stomachaches that are anything but sweet." Mark's eyes widened as if he had suddenly recalled, after the exam, an answer to an important test question he had left blank. "Oh, and I'm being so rude, aren't I? I'm not supposed to eat candy without offering it to the whole class. That's what all my teachers always said, and they were never wrong about anything. Do you want a candy cane, Buzz?"

"You bet." Buzz smiled warmly as if Mark was always this outgoing and energetic, instead of this talkative mood being as uncharacteristic as Rizzo remaining quiet for an entire day. "There could be no better way to celebrate a victory."

"That's what I think." Enthusiastically, Mark bobbed his head in affirmation. Then, he rummaged about in the bag until he found a candy cane the color of melted milk chocolate, which he thrust at Buzz, remarking, "Here's a hot chocolate candy cane, because you're such a warm personality."

Before Buzz could reply, Mark tossed a peppermint candy cane at Bah, who had been walking alongside Buzz. As a slightly bemused Bah caught it, Mark grinned and explained, "Peppermint is perfect for someone as hard-working and traditional as you."

Deciding that the third Conehead would make as good a next target for his generosity as anyone in the locker room, Mark sauntered over to Pav, who was humming tunelessly to himself as he packed his pads into his duffel.

"Do you know something awesome about candy canes, Pav?" inquired Mark solicitously, noticing with a somersault in his intestines that every eye in the locker room was fixed on him and every ear was straining to hear his next word.

_Look at me, Dad_, he thought, willing himself not to panic under all this scrutiny even though he felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, _I'm the life of the locker room. It's kind of fun, I admit, but it's also really scary, because everyone's staring at me like I have green skin and an antenna. You always made it look so easy, laughing and clapping everybody on the shoulder, but it's draining for me. I feel like a fish in a bowl, and I just hope I'm the type of goldfish that grows when it's placed in a bigger bowl. _

Mark half-expected Pav, who was such a hermit that he made Mark seem like a Hollywood star who forever courted the paparazzi, to ignore him, but, instead, Pav simply shook his head.

"They look like hockey sticks," Mark chattered on inanely, improvising as he went along. Throwing a candy cane to Pav, who caught it smoothly, Mark wondered inwardly how talkative people like Dad and Bob Suter managed to speak as they thought, unafraid of sounding stupid, while he had to fight with every word his instinct to reflect and edit before opening his mouth. "If you got a big one, you could fool a teammate into thinking it was their stick, and it would make a wonderful smash when it hit the ice, wouldn't it?"

Pav hesitated, contemplating this, and then rewarded Mark with a thin smile and nod.

"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard." Steve Christoff snorted. "Believe me, that's saying something, because I've played for Herb for four years, and half of his favorite expressions can't be understood without a major disruption of brain tissue or the space-time continuum."

"A lemon for a lemon." Clicking his tongue reprovingly, Mark strode over to Steve and deposited a yellow candy cane into the other forward's palm. "That should provide enough commentary on what I think of you and your attitude."

Steve opened his mouth to retort, but was chopped off before he could begin by Rob, who was chatting to Silky and Rizzo near the latter's locker, shouting across the room, "Get over here now, Magic! We want some candy canes. Don't you dare snub us."

"Just because you aren't first, Robbie, that doesn't mean you're being snubbed." Mark wrinkled his nose as he appeared behind Rizzo's shoulder. "You're so sensitive to everything."

"Give out the candy, and drop the attitude, Mark." Rob scowled and then continued in a stage whisper to Silky and Rizzo, "Don't worry. When he gets like this, you just have to be firm with him like he's a disobedient, hyper, but ultimately friendly puppy."

"Does he, um, get like this often?" Silky, tactless as ever, wanted to know, casting Mark a nervous glance as if they had never met and Silky, sensing he was a nutcase, wished to keep it that way.

"Only when he has sugar-high." Rob shrugged. "I told him to lay off the candy canes, but he insisted they would provide him with a nice energy boost in the game. You see the side effect of his nice energy boost is him acting like a complete lunatic, but dealing with a sugar-high Magic is just one of the noble sacrifices I make as his roommate, because I understand that genius is difficult—especially for those, such as me, surrounding the genius."

"Have you tried a shock collar?" suggested Silky, his gleaming eyes still directed on Mark instead of Rob, although he was addressing the latter. "That might help you control your roommate when he gets like this."

"Nah, I haven't." Rob offered his evilest smirk. "I bet lovely Leslies has, though."

The mocking emphasis his roommate put on his girlfriend's name was too much for Mark, who observed airily, "That's better than anything your dear fiancée has done to try to control you, Mac. Wasn't it gelding she tried last time?"

"That was way below the belt!" Rob yelped in indignation, planting his hands on his hips. "Literally, and since I do still have stuff to hit below the belt, that hurts."

"Nobody here is going to investigate that claim too closely, and you shouldn't make jokes if you can't bear one just as keen." All innocence, Mark chuckled and slipped a jade green candy cane between Rob's fingers. "Here's a sour apple candy cane to make you feel better. It reminds me of you, because it's so tart."

"Never become a doctor." Rob rolled his eyes. "Your bedside manner would leave a ton to be desired."

Ignoring this declaration, Mark snaked his arm around Silky's shoulder and dropped an amber candy cane into Silky's jacket pocket, announcing, "It's molasses, Silky, so it should move at your pace."

"Ha ha." Silky made a flat noise in his throat that sounded like anything but a laugh. "Jokes about my supposed slowness aren't older than Paul Revere's corpse or anything."

"Disgusting metaphor." Reproachfully, Rizzo shook his head. "Did you seriously have to go there with the maggots and everything?"

"It's the first thing I thought of, so, yeah, I did." Shrugging, Silky tore open the wrapping of his candy cane and began to suck on it.

"That's not at all a creepy thought to have for no real reason." As usual, Rob's voice was sagging with sarcasm like bread soaked in olive oil too long. "Oh, and eating right after you think about maggots munching on a dead body is one hundred percent normal, too."

"Who cares what's normal?" blustered Silky, folding his arms across his chest. "Normal is so uncommon that the only freaks are painfully normal folks like you, Robbie."

"We can't give you a normal candy cane, Rizzo," Mark put in before Rob could offer a rejoinder. His hand dove into Rizzo's windbreaker pocket, where Mark had covertly observed Rizzo placing his key when they were changing before the game. As he dropped the cotton candy pink cane he held in his fist into Rizzo's pocket, he grabbed the key, tucked it up his sleeve, and removed his fingers from Rizzo's pocket, continuing in a voice he hoped was happy enough to provide a distraction from Rizzo's lighter windbreaker, "You need bubblegum flavor, because you're such a bubbly personality."

"You're rather bubbly today, too." Guffawing, Rizzo pounded Mark merrily on the back. "Robbie just invited Silky and me to go bowling with him. Do you want to come along?"

"No. I promised—" Mark, about to say Leslie's name, remembered Rob's urge to taunt him whenever he brought her up, and changed his sentence a split second before it was too late—"Diane that I would call her after today's game, you see."

"Of course." Somberly, Rizzo nodded, and Mark knew that he would encounter no teasing about Diane. In the locker room, jokes about his developmentally delayed sister were as off-limits as ones about Jim's dead mother. There were certain wounds too raw to be poked at, and teammates instinctively recognized which scars should never be torn open again. "Our loss is Diane's gain. Tell her I said hey, all right?"

"Sure." Mark nodded, swimming in guilt for using his disabled sister as an excuse for not going bowling with Rizzo while he raided the BU boy's hotel room in search of the lost Christmas tree. He was, he chided himself severely, the world's worst older brother. It was awful enough when he complained about his lot in life, as if it were terrible torture to have to run up a hill when he should just be grateful he had two functioning legs, or as though it were a dreadful burden to have a coach who dared to be critical when preparing a team for the Olympics, and forgetting as he internally cried himself a river that there were probably millions of people who would go into spasms of delight if they could inherit his so-called problems. However, taking advantage of his littlest sister's disability was a new low for him…

"Good man." Rizzo patted him on the shoulder, and Mark corrected inwardly, _I'm only a good man if you consider a liar and a thief a good man. If not, then I'm a scumbag playing on your sympathies for my developmentally delayed sister…_

Vowing to himself that he would atone for at least a portion of his crimes against Rizzo and his younger sister by keeping his promise to call Diane some time that evening, Mark snatched up his duffel from his locker and headed out of the room. As he walked down the hallway that led out of the rink, Ken Morrow caught up with him.

"Great game." Tearing himself out of his conscience's lecture about his reprehensible conduct, Mark forced a grin that pained his teeth and lips but that he didn't dare remove, because then someone might glimpse the ugliness that lurked beneath the pleasant exterior. "Really solid defense on your part. You're like a rock, and I mean that in the best possible sense."

"You're like lightning. You really lit up the scoreboard, Magic." Ken returned the compliment, and then went on, "Anyway, I overheard you telling Rizzo that you were going to give Diane a call. That's great."

"Yep." Despite his strongest efforts to contain himself, the bitterness burst from Mark's lips in a stream as they exited the rink, gusts of wind greeting them with blows of snow to the face. "I don't phone her as much as I should. The Olympic player gets busy, and his little disabled sister gets forgotten."

"I'm sure you love her," answered Ken quietly as they turned down the street toward Mirror Lake and the hotel. "That means you could never really forget her."

"Maybe I don't forget her." Mark bit his lip and stared at his shoes sloshing a path through the snow on the sidewalk. "Perhaps I remember all too well how painful it is to talk to her on the phone, fully aware that she barely understands a word, and so I do the cowardly thing—the easy thing—and don't call her as much as I should."

"It hurts to look at a sibling you love and know you can do what they can't." Ken paused, and then proceeded gingerly, seeming to select every word with tremendous care, "Really, you'd rather that they could be the one who could do what you couldn't. Look, Mark, my brother and I used to dream of being in the NHL and everything. Everyone thought that, if either of us made it in a big way, it would be him, because he was so much more driven than me, and I was just as cool as a cucumber about everything. Then my brother got injured, and it was just me who would have to try to live the NHL dream for both of us. After my brother's injury, I knew that every moment I spent playing hockey was a gift I could never earn, but I admit there hasn't been a second that went by since when I haven't wished that it was my dream that died, not my brother's."

As they arrived at the lakeside hotel and stepped into the bright, enveloping warmth of the lobby, Mark murmured, "Ken, you're such a great guy. There should be more people like you on this planet. Then there might not be less suffering, but it would be a lot easier to deal with, you know."

"You're like me." Ken clapped Mark's shoulder as they wended their way through coffee tables and upholstered furniture toward the elevator bank, where he pressed the up arrow, and they waited for an elevator to land with a clang. "That's what I'm telling you, so you realize that if you ever need to speak with anyone about Diane or anything else, you can feel comfortable approaching me, since I swear I'll do my best to be a sympathetic ear."

An elevator heralded by a ding and a glowing up arrow arrived in the lobby. After moving aside for a knot of suited businessmen probably in a hurry to attend some fancy dinner conference flocking off the incoming elevator, Mark and Ken boarded it, hit the button for their floor, and watched the metal doors close around them.

"Thanks." Mark swallowed the lump in his throat, and then changed the subject as the elevator shot up the shaft. "Do you mind if I drop by your room to check up on Bob? His mom would want me to make sure that he isn't jumping on his bed with his broken ankle or anything."

"Of course I don't mind if you come visit." Ken grinned as the elevator opened its doors with a ding that announced they had reached their floor, and they entered their corridor. Walking down the carpeted hallway that muffled their every footfall until they came to the room Ken shared with Bob, Ken added, "Somebody beside me is welcome to make sure that Bob doesn't hurt himself for a change."

Smiling at this comment, Mark watched as Ken removed a key from a sweatpants pocket and twisted it into the lock.

"I'm back," said Ken as he and Mark stepped into the hotel room, shutting the door behind them. "Did you miss me?"

"Words fail to describe how much." With a snicker, Bob glanced up from the comic book he was perusing on his bed. "You'll have to look at the mound of Kleenex in the garbage to get an idea of the number of tears I shed in your absence."

"They were probably more from joy than sorrow." Ken chuckled.

"Probably," agreed Bob, laughing.

"You seem to be doing well," Mark noted, plopping at the foot of Bob's bed without permission, since the beauty of friendship was in never having to ask if you could sit down and just doing it.

"My ankle is feeling better," reported Bob, "but I'm going stir-crazy. It's like when you're little, and you pretend to be sick so you can stay home from school. At first, you welcome the chance to lay around and do nothing. Then, after a few hours of extreme boredom, you realize that doing anything—even reciting stupid multiplication tables all day—is a hundred times better than doing nothing. Herb's practices and conditioning may brutal, but they're much more fun than taking it easy on my ankle all the time."

"I'll bet," Mark replied, smiling slightly. "Herb may be a lunatic, but his practices aren't nightmares. I mean, he gives us free reign to be fast and creative, and he doesn't yell at us when our experiments make a mess as long as we clean up afterward, and don't repeat sloppy mistakes."

On a whole, Herb Brooks wasn't the raving madman Mark had immediately judged him to be when Olympic training started. Although Herb always reserved the right to lash out at any player at any time, everyone on his team recognized that Herb probably wouldn't scorch their ears for attempting a new technique and failing monumentally. Their coach would rather them make errors of commission, so they could learn from their mistakes, than errors of omission, in which they had no hope of emerging from their daze long enough to achieve anything.

Besides, Mark had noticed, Herb, no matter how furious he seemed, never actually lost control when he was taking a player to task, and Herb tended to save his most burning diatribes for players like Dave Silk or Rob McClanahan who played hot—riding a wave of adrenaline and challenge to a rocky shore—rather than players like Ken Morrow and Mark who played cold—avoiding every emotional crest and trough that could distract them from the glistening horizon ahead. Herb knew how to motivate players of both styles, neither of which was inherently better than the other, and he was glad to be the enemy a hot player could push against to succeed. Agree or disagree with his methods, Mark thought nobody could deny that Herb understood exactly what he was doing and was in total control at all times…

"Yeah." Bob stared out the window at the pewter gray ripples on Mirror Lake's surface. "Playing hockey on this team has been so much fun that I don't want to imagine being kicked off it."

Frowning, Mark reflected that hope and reality, where injuries were concerned, often lay in inverse proportions. Bob didn't have to spell out his fears so explicitly; they were exactly the ones Mark had been sternly forbidding himself from harboring for days, since he knew that doubt was like dye. Once it spread through the fabric of excuses he had woven, he would never be able to erase the stain.

"What nonsense are you spewing now?" Mark arched an eyebrow. "How can you even talk about being cut from this team?"

"Face it, Mark." Bob's mouth firmed into a grim line. "I'm not the kind of player anyone would want on their team right now."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Mark, figuring that pretending ignorance would be less agonizing than acknowledging his fears about Bob's tenuous position on the roster. "It's not like you're a serial killer. You don't torture chipmunks or do anything revolting, except try to burp 'God Bless America' at the dinner table—"

"I only did that once," Bob protested, and, before Mark could counter that once was more than traumatizing enough, added flatly, "but think about it. I'm damaged goods, and nobody, especially someone as impartial and pitiless as Herb Brooks, keeps things that get broken. Sooner or later, they get tossed in the trash."

"Bob, you're not being sent off, believe me." Mark's jaw clenched. "And if you are, I'll run away with you."

"Pinkie promise?" pressed Bob, as if they were Pee Wees.

"Pinkie promise." Like a Pee Wee, Mark hooked his pinkie around Bob's and squeezed as if that would be enough to keep them on the team together forever.

"Where would we go?" asked Bob, as though they needed to plot their itinerary immediately.

_Back to when we were Pee Wees, and being kicked off an Olympic team was an impossibility_, Mark thought, but, since he couldn't begin to describe how they could travel back in time, he suggested, "Budapest. I don't really know where that is, but I like the way it explodes off my tongue like a firecracker."

"Or Shanghai." Bob picked up the exotic theme and ran a mile with it. "That's in China."

"Or the Galapagos." Mark was resolved to prove that he wasn't a complete geographical ignoramus. "That's off the coast of Africa where Darwin did a lot of his research on evolution."

"We could travel the world together." Bob's eyes shone like the sunset. "It would be our own friendly freak show: the boy who breaks and the boy who always holds himself together."

Wishing that he really could always hold himself together, Mark pushed himself off Bob's bed, muttering, "I've got to go. I owe Diane a call."

_I'm getting really good at lying_, he told himself bitingly. _I'm becoming a master at saying something that sounds like I'm about to do one thing when I'm actually about to do something else entirely. In this case, I owe Diane a call, but instead of picking up a pay phone and chatting with her (or __**to **__her), I'm going to sneak into Rizzo and Silky's room like a thief in the night. _

"You do that," Bob responded, as Mark faded back into the hallway. "Tell her I said hi and that I hope she is doing great. If anyone deserves happiness, she does."

Mark nodded to show that he had heard and understood his friend. Then, he shut the door, and, deciding that all of their teammates should be returned to their rooms so they should not notice if he slipped into Silky and Rizzo's instead of his and Rob's, he walked two doors down, slid Rizzo's key into the lock, turned it with a twist that seemed to reverberate down the empty hallway like a judge's gavel, and entered the room Silky and Rizzo shared.

As he closed the door behind him, Mark, wrinkling his nose, observed that the room was littered with a lot more detritus than his and Robbie's. Bracing himself for the rank stench of old sweat, he combed through a mound of dirty clothes over a foot in height, but found no Christmas tree and no ornaments or lights.

Undaunted because he had not anticipated recovering the stolen tree or its decorations that easily, Mark moved over to the dresser, beginning to examine the drawers, placing his hands on stacks of clothing to feel for any tell-tale bulges that might conceal ornaments or lights.

Still empty-handed at the end of this portion of his search, Mark crossed over to the closet. After rifling through all the clothes on the hangars and climbing onto a chair in order to inspect the shelf at the top of the closet (a task that required him lugging the desk chair over from the opposite side of the room, because no hotel room was ever designed with the needs of vertically-challenged beings like him in mind), his search remained fruitless.

Beginning to wonder whether Rob had been wrong to suspect Rizzo and Silky of the Christmas tree theft, Mark returned the chair to the desk, and started exploring, no longer truly expecting to uncover any evidence of culpability in the Christmas tree crime, in the drawers for ornaments, lights, or even the tree itself. When, as he had surmised, he located nothing of interest in the desk drawers, he walked into the bathroom, telling himself that this was his last chance to vindicate what he was doing—to make it an investigation, albeit a deceptive one, rather than a completely baseless betrayal.

He glanced at the sink, spotting nothing but the same sort of toiletries he and Rob possessed. Moving over to the shower, he yanked back the curtain, wishing he could be greeted by the sight of the tree, but only seeing shampoo and soap bottles.

Pulling the curtain back to its original position, Mark left the bathroom and crossed over to the desk, where he placed Rizzo's key, thinking, _Rizzo, I'm sorry I stole your key, snuck into yours and Silky's room like this, and rummaged through yours and Silky's things. I was so wrong to believe either one of you were thieves. I hope that neither one of you find out about this, but, if you do, I hope that you'll forgive me. _

Informing himself in no uncertain terms that he was a liar and thief utterly unworthy of friends as loyal and honest as Rizzo and Silky, Mark checked that everything was how he had found it since Rizzo and Silky didn't deserve to anguish over whether someone had stolen their belongings. Then, after ascertaining through the peephole that the hallway was clear, he exited the room as silently and as swiftly as a ghost.

Convinced that he might feel a little less like a totally despicable individual if he at least kept his promise to call Diane, Mark walked over to the elevator bank, pressed the down arrow, and waited for a descending elevator to arrive.

A minute later, one halted at his floor with a ding, and the metal doors opened to reveal an elderly lady as doughy as a cinnamon roll with hair as silvery as the melted sugar on the pastry's top, and a rail-thin, balding gentleman who was probably her husband.

"Hello," Mark said, putting on his bland, mingling smile as he joined them in the elevator and the doors slammed shut. As the elevator resumed its descent, he checked that the lobby level was indeed lit up. Seeing that it was, he leaned away from the buttons and resigned himself to a journey with fellow passengers who smelled like mothballs.

"Hello, son," croaked the elderly man, who, at his advanced age, was still taller than Mark.

Mark hoped that this would be the end of their polite chitchat, because small talk with male strangers who believed he was in such desperate need of a father figure that he wanted to be referred to as "son" by complete strangers seldom went well.

"Are you here on vacation with your family, dear?" the old woman, who had plainly not sensed Mark's desire to be finished with this conversation, asked.

"Nope." Mark shook his head, wishing that the elevator would arrive at the lobby any second now. "I'm attending a hockey tournament with my team. It's just us boys and the coaches."

"You don't look a moment older than thirteen!" gasped the old lady. "Coaches really are taking babies out of their mothers' arms these days. Your poor mother must be worried sick about you. I mean, what if you get injured, and she's not here to dry your tears?"

"I'm legally an adult, ma'am." Mark's face was frozen into the smile that meant he was wishing he could be alone to bury his head in his palms and scream for an hour. He hated being confused with a pubescent—absolutely hated it. "Mom believes I can find my own Kleenex now, and so do my coaches."

The old woman opened her mouth to reply—probably something to the effect that Mark couldn't possibly be an adult when he could not be over the age of thirteen, as if she, who had just met him, was a better authority on his birth than he was—but she was mercifully cut off by a ding as the elevator finally reached the lobby.

"After you." Mark waved the elderly couple out first, hoping that they might not be blind enough to miss the flash of his engagement ring. "Have a good evening."

Once the elderly couple had hobbled out of the elevator into the lobby, Mark stepped out of the elevator and strode over to the pay phones encased in their private, glass bubbles.

Finding a vacant one, he walked through the door, pulled the requisite change out of his wallet, dumped it into the slot, and began to dial his home number. He was about to punch in the last digit when he lost his courage, and his finger stilled. Coward that he was, he couldn't bring himself to talk to Diane knowing that she could barely understand a word. Speaking to her face-to-face, he could see her smile, which allowed him to pretend that she understood whatever he was trying to communicate to her, but, over the phone lines, there was only her silence and befuddlement. He loved her but so much was lost in translation over telephone wires…

"Your call could not be completed as dialed," an automated female voice trilled from the receiver next to his ear. "Please hang up and dial again."

Mark put down the receiver, dropped more coins into the slot, and punched in Leslie's number this time.

"Hello?" The music of Leslie's voice fluted through the receiver after two rings.

"Hi, Leslie." Mark smiled, hoping she could hear it in his tone.

"Hi, Mark," she said, and he could hear the grin in hers. "How are you?"

"All right." Mark twisted the cord around his fingers. "It's everyone else who suffers because I'm a terrible person."

"You're not a terrible person," corrected Leslie fiercely. "You're a very good one, in fact, because I don't have bad taste in fiancés. Sure, you mess up sometimes like everyone else, but the important thing is you learn from your mistakes, and you don't repeat them ad nauseum."

"I was going to call Diane tonight," mumbled a shame-faced Mark into the receiver, "but I couldn't bring myself to do it."

"Okay, that is kind of bad," Leslie admitted, and that was one of the fifty million reasons why Mark loved her: she didn't lie to him, not even about himself. "But I know that you love Diane so much it hurts. You understand, in a way she doesn't, all that she can't do and might never be able to do. It's not surprising that becomes overwhelming sometimes. Not calling Diane doesn't automatically make you a monster, Mark; it just makes you human."

"Yeah, a selfish human." Sighing, Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to make excuses for me, Leslie."

"Actually, I do," insisted Leslie. "If I don't make excuses for you, you'll beat yourself up more than you already have. I know how hard you are on yourself. For others, you find forgiveness when they mess up, but for yourself, it's all criticism. Nobody can be perfect. You've got to stop expecting that of yourself."

"I would like to be perfect," muttered the part of Mark that empathized all too much with Rob McClanahan's obsession with re-taping his sticks until all the tape was exactly even. "I should be perfect."

"No, you really shouldn't," Leslie countered. "It would be very annoying and daunting to the rest of us mortals if you were. We like you with the few faults you have, thanks."

"Leslie." Maybe, Mark thought, Rob was right, not that he would ever say so to his smug roommate. Perhaps he did pronounce Leslie's name differently than anyone else's—like a caress, letting the inflection of his voice be the only intimate touch that could float through phone wires. "I love you, beautiful."

"When you proposed to me, I dared to hope that was what you meant." Leslie laughed.

"You're supposed to say, 'I love you, too, handsome,'" Mark reminded her, chuckling.

"I love you, too, handsome and humble," she assured him, all sweetness.

"You're making my ears turn red." They really were blazing like beacons, shouting to the world to stare at him, because all he wanted was for nobody to look at him while he melted through the floor in a puddle of love and embarrassment.

"Maybe you really are modest, after all," she taunted, utterly unsympathetic to his plight. "Perhaps you are the most humble man on Earth, destined to be forever unable to brag about your greatness."

"My money is running out," Mark told her, as a warning beep sounded from the receiver. "I'll call you again soon. I promise."

"That's a promise you'd better keep," Leslie advised him crisply. "My life is a desert drear without the oasis of your conversation."

"Have I ever lied to you?" Mark arched an eyebrow, even though he was well aware that she could not see his quizzical expression.

"No," she answered dryly, "and you shouldn't dare to lie to me about this, either, or else I'll yell at you until your ears really turn red."

"I'm going to marry such a charming, even-tempered woman," teased Mark. Then, more seriously, he added, "Goodbye, Leslie. I love you."

"Love you, too," she responded. "Goodbye, Mark."

Once they had hung up, Mark left the pay phone booth and returned to his hotel room. He had just finished making himself a peanut butter and raspberry preserve sandwich when Rob burst through the door accompanied by Rizzo and Silky. They brought with them the odor of beer and greasy food.

Rob, who apparently had been planning to rub Rizzo and Silky's noses in the tree Mark was supposed to have recovered, shot Mark a pointed, inquisitive glance that Mark responded to with a quick, quelling headshake that meant he would explain everything later.

"How was bowling?" Mark asked before Rizzo's or Silky's attention could be captured by the silent exchange between him and his roommate.

"Great." Rizzo launched into what would doubtlessly be a long answer as Mark bit into his sandwich. "We had five games. Robbie and I each won two before Silky won the last one. He needed to have the bumpers up, and Robbie and I had to aim at the gutter a few times, but he did it in the end. It's just lucky he doesn't want to be on an Olympic bowling team."

"Do they have an Olympic bowling team?" demanded Rob, probably calculating his odds of making it if he ever wished to try out for the team.

"They shouldn't." Silky sneered. "Bowling isn't a real sport. It's just weightlifting for losers."

"Steady now." Rizzo clapped Silky gently on the shoulder. "I told you to go easy on the Buds after your first three. You know you aren't a pleasant drunk."

"I'm not drunk," snarled Silky, nearly slurring the syllables.

"Tell me that with a straight face when you're all hungover tomorrow." Rizzo shook his head, and then, casting around for a change in subject, wanted to know, "What happened to the Christmas tree you guys had in here? Did Santa steal it to give to his elves?"

"No." Rob smirked. "Silky here isn't the only one who can't hold his booze. After last night's binge, Mark and I wanted to discover what a Christmas tree falling out of a window sounded like."

"Ah." Rizzo guffawed. "And what did it sound like, Mac?"

"Nothing spectacular." Rob gave a dejected sigh. "It just made a thump as it landed in a snow bank. Really, it was so boring and disappointing that we decided not to go to the bother of finding it. What a waste of fake timber that tree was, and the world would be improved without it, in my opinion."

"Your love of fake nature stuns me." With a final chortle, Rizzo guided Silky to the door, tossing over his shoulder, "I've got to get Silky safely tucked into bed before he hurts himself. See you two tomorrow."

Once the door had shut behind Rizzo and Silky, Rob hissed, "Mark, I thought we had an agreement, but, obviously, you weren't ready to keep your end of the bargain. You should've just told me that you didn't want to be a part of my plan, instead of lying by acting as though you were going to do something you weren't."

"Don't accuse me of lying to you, Mac." Mark's mouth tightened. "I've lied to a lot of people today for your sake, but you aren't among them."

"That's funny." Rob rolled his eyes. "You say you didn't lie to me, but you plainly didn't keep your promise to sneak into Rizzo and Silky's room."

"For your information, I did." Mark's spine stiffened. "Maybe you should ask before you accuse next time."

"I'm asking now." Rob folded his arms across his chest. "Where the heck is the Christmas tree if you searched in Rizzo and Silky's room?"

"I have no clue." Mark's voice and eyes were cold as winter wind. "You see, the flaw in your otherwise brilliant plan was that there was no Christmas tree in that room."

"Did you search everywhere for it?" Rob's forehead furrowed.

"Yes." Mark's gaze widened emphatically. "And I didn't find so much as an ornament from our tree."

"Then we've got to think of where else Rizzo and Silky could have hidden the tree." Rob massaged his temples. "Those BU boys don't have wood carvings for brains, after all, so this is going to be more of a challenge than I thought."

"I realize that it is practically impossible for a prideful person like you, Rob, to admit you were wrong, but could you at least refrain from acting according to theories that have just been proven to be woefully inaccurate?" Mark gritted his teeth. "Let's try to stay on the right side of the fine line between stubborn and stupid, shall we?"

"I know you want Rizzo and Silky to be innocent." Rob's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Still, all the proof I provided against them yesterday stands—"

"Oh, please be quiet." Mark held up a silencing palm. "You're the one who is so blinded by your need for Silky and Rizzo to be guilty that you can't see the fact that there was absolutely no evidence to be found against them in their room."

"That just means they're clever, not innocent." Tutting his tongue impatiently, Rob pressed, "Can we at least agree that we have to keep looking for our tree?"

"I'm glad that you at least have the wisdom and maturity to understand that it's more important to find our tree than to pin the blame on Rizzo and Silky." Mark offered a terse nod. "As long as you can stay focused on our true goal of locating our tree, we're united by a common purpose and can work together to solve this mystery."

"Wonderful. My vengeance can wait until the tree is recovered." Rob grinned wolfishly. "Tomorrow, Magic, our search intensifies, so get a good night's sleep."

"


	7. Chapter 7

Away in a Manger

When he entered the locker room the next day to get ready for practice, Mark's attention was instantly seized by white writing on the blackboard in the front of the room Herb sometimes used to illustrate playing strategies. Frowning at the board, Mark read the message scrawled in all capitals in chalk: MARK AND ROBBIE—AWAY IN A MANGER.

"Mark and Robbie—away in a manger." Steve Christoff snickered, as he read the note off the chalkboard. "Someone obviously thinks Mark and Robbie are asses."

"If I'm a donkey, I can kick you in the butt, Steve." Scowling, Rob stalked across the locker room, snatched the eraser from its holder under the board, and scrubbed every line of the message off the blackboard. "Anyway, you shouldn't speak if you have no idea what you're talking about. Being a moron, you just confused a stable with a manger. The stable is where all the animals are kept, and the manger is the little crib where food for the cattle is stored. You're just as hopelessly ignorant as whoever wrote this message."

"Come on now." Silky looked up from changing into his pads long enough to glare at Rob. "How do you know whoever wrote the message was hopelessly ignorant?"

"You can tell a lot about a person based on their handwriting," explained Rob crisply, as he crossed over to his locker and began putting on his equipment. "Whoever wrote this message did so in all caps and uneven letters. That shows they are an unbalanced imbecile."

"I'm sure whoever wrote the message was just scribbling quickly in the throes of creative genius." Easygoing as ever, Eric Strobel grinned. "I bet they didn't realize they would be a contestant in a handwriting competition judged by someone as stuffy as you."

"Creativity is the word," Buzz Schneider piped up before Rob could retort. "I bet they were just trying to sing Christmas carols in an original way."

"Truly—" Rizzo threw his hands into the air dramatically—"a prophet is never accepted in his own home."

"I'm surrounded by idiots." His forehead knotted in concentration, Rob shook his head, and it was hard to figure out if the gesture was dissatisfaction with the taping job he had just performed on his stick, exasperation with his teammates, or both. "The type of people dumb enough to believe this locker room is their home instead of their torture chamber."

Shaking his own head, Mark contemplated the words written on the chalkboard. Although he knew the handwriting of every member of the team, he could not determine who had scribbled the words on the blackboard, which probably indicated that whoever had scrawled the note to him and Rob had done so with their non-dominant hand. (After all, whenever Mark tried to write anything with his left hand, it became a series of squiggles and slants that definitely wasn't English.) That meant there was, as far as Mark could see, still no lead as to who had stolen the tree, but, maybe the message provided a clue to the far more important mystery of where the tree was hidden. Away in a manger…Well, he just hoped he and Rob wouldn't have to travel all the way to Bethlehem like the three wise men. Pilgrimages were very admirable expressions of religious devotion, but there wasn't time for that in an intense schedule of preparing for the Olympics.

Plainly, Rob was also ruminating on the implications of the chalk announcement, because, as they were sitting on the bench, waiting for their chance to participate in the scrimmage, he commented matter-of-factly, as though resuming an ongoing dialogue rather than starting one, "Pity Rizzo or Silky—whichever of them wrote the note—was clever enough to use their non-dominant hand. Without their handwriting to tie them to their message, we have nothing to link them to the crime of stealing our Christmas tree."

"Rob." Mark fixed his level stare that demonstrated he was not impressed with his left-winger's wild theories on his rash and cynical line mate. "I thought that we had reached an understanding. I don't want to have to remind you all the time that our focus needs to be on uncovering our missing tree, not exposing Rizzo and Silky as criminals. Constantly telling you what you should already know isn't my definition of an exciting or an effective investigation."

"Rizzo and Silky will expose themselves in the fashion of guilty thieves everywhere." Mutinously, Rob lifted his chin. "We just need to be alert for their inevitable slip, but, since it hasn't happened yet, we can turn our attention to analyzing the content of the message for clues about where they put our Christmas tree."

"Away in a manger," repeated Mark, tugging meditatively on an earlobe. "Should we interpret the phrase literally or more figuratively? Should we write the words down and read them backward to see if they spell something else? Should we assume it's an anagram and try to rearrange the letters into the name of a place or some other hint?"

"I'd prefer to start with a straightforward interpretation," Rob answered, shrugging. "It involves less exhausting mental gymnastics and, if the straightforward approach fails, we can always try reading the message figuratively or as some sort of puzzle like you suggested. Let's not make this anymore convoluted than it has to be, Magic."

"Agreed." Mark nodded, and then went on with a grin, "Time for a word-association game like you play on a road trip, Mac. When I say 'manger,' you think…"

"The mantel at home where we have a beautiful Nativity." Rob flashed an almost nostalgic smile. "Perhaps Stu, terribly annoying little brother that he is, traveled all the way to Lake Placid to rob our tree and hide it in the Nativity at home. I mean, I would never in a million years suspect that, so it could be the perfect crime."

"Now you think it was Stu who took our tree." Mark nudged Rob in the ribs. "Admit it. You have no idea who the thief is."

"Not having convicting proof of who the thief is and not having a working theory about who the thief is are totally different things. I have a theory that Silky and Rizzo stole our tree; I just presently lack proof I'm confident will be forthcoming." Rob eyed Mark in a way that made it clear he would not be dissuaded from this perspective any time before the sun started rising in the west. "Anyhow, it's your turn in the hot seat. When I say 'manger,' the first word that springs into your otherwise empty brain is…"

"Church!" Mark's gaze widened eagerly. "Every day on the way to and from the arena, we pass that Catholic church with the gigantic Nativity on the lawn. Maybe whoever stole our Christmas tree hid it there."

"Perhaps." Rob's brown eyes glittered with a triumph that suggested they had already reclaimed their taken tree. "And Rizzo is Catholic."

"As is Jack O'Callahan. As is Jim Craig. As are probably at least a hundred other people in Lake Placid," Mark reeled off. "This isn't the nineteenth century. You can't get away with implying all Catholics are automatically crooks any longer."

"I wasn't implying any such thing, and you know it," protested Rob, looking miffed. "I'm vaguely mainline Protestant, but I have nothing against Catholics. I'm not a bigot. Some of my closest friends are Catholic, for your information, so, obviously, I don't think all Catholics are thieves. I just think that one Catholic named Rizzo is. That's _all _I'm saying."

"Well, what I'm saying is that, even if we do find our stolen Christmas tree in the Nativity at the Catholic church, it wouldn't be conclusive evidence that Rizzo was the one who put it there," Mark pointed out, all patience. "Plenty of people, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, have access to the churchyard."

Rob opened his mouth to reply to this assertion but was cut off by Herb's sharp bark, "Johnson line, replace Broten's. Coneheads, you're taking over for Verchota's. Baker and O'Callahan, take over defense on Craig's side. Morrow and Ramsey, you're on defense for Janny's team. Shift it, boys! Our substitutions should be faster than the average Pee Wee team's!"

For a moment, the rink echoed with the sound of players climbing over the rail for the shift change. Once everybody on the ice was in the proper position to begin the scrimmage, Herb dropped the puck at center ice. Mark kept his eyes on the puck and his stick surged forward to take possession as it struck the ice, but, this time, Pav was faster off the draw.

In an eye blink, Pav pulled the puck away from Mark and passed it to Buzz in one fluid motion. Deftly skating a circle around Eric Strobel, Buzz streaked toward the net where Jim was playing goalie. A second later, he was confronted by Bill. Dodging the stick Bill thrust out to gain possession of the puck, Buzz shot the puck across the ice to Bah.

At the last instant, Rob, who was always a formidable two-way player, intercepted the pass. Smoothly twisting away from Bah, Rob flew down the ice, picking up speed with every scrape of his blades along the ice.

As they streaked out of the neutral zone, Mark made certain that he was open and was rewarded when Rob, a split second before being slammed against the boards by Rammer, passed him the the puck. Speeding on toward Janny's goal, Mark found himself running into the steady defensive stonewall that was Ken Morrow.

Embracing the challenge of trying to push past Ken, Mark danced swiftly to the left and then to the right. When his shifts in direction failed to confuse Ken, Mark drew the puck back sharply and then tried to push forward only to be blocked by the defensive rock of Ken.

Guarding the puck with his stick, Mark glanced rapidly over his left shoulder—Rob was still pinned against the boards by Rammer, so passing to his left-winger would be about as bright an idea as a carnival sword-swallower upgrading his act to a nuclear weapon—and then to his right—Eric, for reasons comprehensible only to himself, was performing what could only be described as pirouettes in the neutral zone and seemed completely oblivious to Mark's attempt at scoring, so passing to his right-winger wasn't going to be an option either.

Mentally bemoaning the fact that the player nicknamed Electric was clearly having more of an off day than an on one, Mark aimed a shot at goal through Morrow's legs, because that was the only open ice he could find, and was not surprised when Janny's glove shut easily around the puck.

Accepting the puck Janny dumped in his palm, Herb took advantage of the pause in play to issue a stream of corrections and criticisms: "Schneider, next time you pass to a line mate, check they really are open so you don't have a turnover. Harrington, if you lose the puck, make more than one lousy attempt at recovering it, and try to keep pace with whoever took it. McClanahan, next time you get pinned to the boards, consider trying to break out to your right first rather than to your left, because you always try to break out to your left first, and that's very predictable. As for you, Strobel, are you a ballerina?"

"No, Coach." Seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was about to be chewed and spat out by Herb, Eric shook his head calmly. "I never took a ballet class in my life."

"Then stop doing pirouettes in the neutral zone, and start playing hockey," snapped Herb. "Let's have another line shift. Everybody, you have four seconds to get where you're supposed to be."

Once they had clambered off the ice and onto the bench, Rob shot Eric his most wilting glare, demanding, "Why do you even bother to show up to practice if you aren't going to play? Could you please just explain that to me? After all these years of knowing you, I still don't understand the answer to that, and, like all unanswered questions, it bugs me."

"I did play." Refusing to raise his voice in response to Rob's hostile tone, Eric shrugged. "Look, I'm sorry if I stepped on your toes, Mac, but you don't need to yell at me."

"Actually, I do," growled Rob. "Yelling is the only thing that pops your bubble of calm complacency."

"We're all on the same team here, remember?" Eric tried again to pacify Rob.

"Yeah, I remember," snarled Rob, his eyes blazing as if he had just swallowed a firecracker. "When I was trapped against the boards, and Mark was desperately trying to dance around Ken, it was you who was performing random pirouettes in the neutral zone like a figure skater instead of making yourself open for a pass from a teammate or anything remotely useful like a hockey player should."

"If you don't think I was there when you and Mark needed me, I apologize." Eric spread his palms in an appeal. "Being where I was and doing what I did felt right to me at the time, even if it turned out to be wrong. I've got to trust my hockey instincts, and I figured that you and Mark had the situation under control."

"I was being pounded against the boards by Rammer, and Mark was being held in check by Morrow, but the situation was under control?" Rob emitted a scathing tongue click. "If that's your definition of a situation under control, I'd hate to see your idea of a fiasco."

"All right. You've had your rant, now chill out." Eric sipped from his water bottle. "What's done is done."

"But not by you," hissed Rob, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. "Never by you. It's always Mark and me who have to do all the hard work in the real world, while you do your woolgathering on some higher plane that rarely intersects with reality."

"That's not fair." Indignantly, Eric nearly expelled the water he had just sipped. "I scored yesterday, didn't I?"

"Having an occasional moment of greatness doesn't even begin to cancel out you slacking off the rest of the time." Rob rolled his eyes. "That's what is so aggravating, Eric. It's not that you can't do it. It's just that most of the time, for reasons none of the rest of us can understand, you won't."

"I'm glad that everyone on this line is comfortable sharing their thoughts and feelings with one another, but perhaps we could strive for a more respectful tone in our dealings with each other," interjected Mark before Eric could offer a rebuttal.

Massaging his temples, Mark wished that his line mates could understand one another as well as he did them. To Rob, hockey was hard work and determination; to Eric, hockey was artistry and inspiration. Rob was always intense and conscientious, alert for whatever challenge was coming up next, while Eric was even-keeled and intuitive, following his instincts to stunning success or burning failure. Mark himself, he supposed, was somewhere in between, the temperate zone to their poles: calm but focused, and always trying to blend grace and inventiveness with grit and old-fashioned elbow-grease when he played hockey.

Maybe that was why he could understand both of them, and he recognized that as the center—as the coordinator—of this line, it was his responsibility to fuse them into a force to be reckoned with. It didn't matter how streaky Eric Strobel could be; he was still the best pure skater except for Eric Heiden (who had been on his Pee Wee team) that Mark had ever met, and it was Mark's duty as center to bring that talent to the forefront as much as possible. This line had to demonstrate the potential Herb had apparently seen when he put the three of them together as starting forwards.

"Eric," he continued, eyeing the right-winger seriously. "Since we're, er, a space-efficient but certainly not short line, it would be helpful to our overall success if we could all do our best to be aware of when a line mate who is being stonewalled is trying to pass to us. Obviously, we're not going to succeed with that all the time, and that's to be expected, but it's a good goal to work toward, you know."

"Yeah, of course, Magic." Eric ducked his head, a slight blush shading his cheeks. "I'll try to think about you guys and what support you need a bit more next shift. I promise."

"No sweat, Electric." Mark patted Eric on the back, and then glanced at Rob, adding, "Eric is doing the best he can just like we are, Robbie. You don't need to criticize him so harshly."

"No, he's not trying at all." Rob snorted. "That's the problem, Magic."

"Mac." Mark shook his head in mild reproof. "You can't judge how much effort somebody else is putting in. You have no way of knowing that."

"I do, though." Rob's jaw clenched in revolt. "To watch him is to see that he does nothing and doesn't even attempt anything of the slightest significance. If that's working hard, then I'll eat my sweaty shoulder pads."

"Just because when Eric works hard it doesn't look the same as you working hard, that doesn't mean you can just discount his efforts whenever you get irritated with his performance, Robbie," insisted Mark with all the quiet authority he could muster. "On this line, we've all got different personalities and styles. We all need to be appreciative of that, okay?"

"Okay, Mark." Rob gave a brief, angry nod of concession, but he made no attempt at apologizing to Eric, and the tension between the wingers remained as thick as molasses throughout the rest of practice.

As a result, it was almost a relief to Mark when the scrimmages ended, and they headed over to the hill for a run in their equipment.

"Up the hill twice and back!" Herb rapped out when they arrived at the geographical feature of their torment. "Get cracking, and no stopping to catch flies with your mouths, boys!"

"Does he really believe that there are any flies to catch in the winter?" Mark asked Rob, as they commenced their trek up the hill, grateful enough that Rob did not bear a grudge over their confrontation about Eric's performance powerful enough to search for a different running partner for the day that he began their conversation, instead of leaving that to Rob as he usually did.

"He shouldn't." Rob offered his trademark smirk. "Even as a child, I knew that flies disappeared to the same place that fish vanished to in the winter."

"Obviously." Mark grinned. "The fish have to eat something while they're hiding under the ice, so why shouldn't it be flies?"

"That was my logic as a little boy," remarked Rob. "Trust me, it was very devastating for me to learn that the flies just died and didn't disappear under the ice, after all."

"Childhood is filled with painful revelations like that," Mark observed, as they crossed the crest of the hill and began their descent. "It was a terrible moment for me when I read in some book or other that the ocean didn't freeze like every other body of water. I thought it would be awesome to skate on the jagged peaks of the waves, but that dream will never become true, because salt cruelly conspires to prevent oceans from freezing."

"Yeah, the closest thing to frozen waves are icebergs." Rob somehow found the oxygen necessary for a small chuckle. "You can ask the _Titanic _how fun they are."

"I would," answered Mark wryly, "but it's a bit of a wreck right now."

Rob snickered as they reached the bottom of the hill and spun around to start their ascent.

"McClanahan!" Herb shouted abruptly, causing both Rob and Mark to jerk in shock. Herb, as always, had been poking holes in everyone's performance, but their casual conversation until now had done an admirable job of blocking out their coach's ranting. "Is that what you call going fast? It looks more like going at a crab's pace to me. You've got legs for a reason. Use them!"

With an audible grinding of his teeth, Rob picked up his speed. Not about to let his running partner outstrip him, Mark churned his legs quicker over the pavement, as well.

Once Rob had decided that, being halfway up the hill, they were far enough out of Herb's earshot for impertinence to be a relatively safe territory, he muttered truculently, "You only think that I run like a crab because your eyes are failing you in your old age, Herb."

"He's just trying to get a rise out of you," Mark told his roommate. "He doesn't really think you run like a crab. You don't have nearly enough limbs to run like a crab, for starters."

"I have enough limbs to punch Herb in the nose, though," grunted Rob. "One day, I'll probably do just that."

"Now that would be an unwise decision." Mark shook his head as they arrived at the peak of the hill and turned around for their trek to the base. "Your father is a lawyer. I shouldn't have to tell you about the astronomical legal fees associated with assault."

"Your father is a coach," riposted Rob. "I shouldn't have to explain the immeasurable psychological satisfaction, and everyone knows that it is more important to be motivated by internal factors—like the ego—than external factors—like money. If you want to be successful, it's better to be prideful than greedy. All the experts are in agreement about that."

"Heaven help me," Mark panted as they reached the bottom of the hill and began to jog in place. "You're incorrigible."

"A one second improvement." Herb's lips thinned as he studied his stopwatch. "Go back to the locker room."

"A one second improvement isn't statistically significant." Rob shook his head in disappointment as they walked down the icy sidewalk toward the rink. Two nights ago, with all his graphs and equations, he had calculated that any change greater or equal to three seconds was statistically significant, while any change less than three seconds was not statistically significant.

"Don't let Herb overhear you saying that," warned Mark, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder at their coach, who was probably busy screaming at some other unfortunate player for poor running technique. "Do you want him to make us run up and down that wretched hill until we display a statistically significant improvement?"

"It would be one way to figure out if Herb did make Silky run up the hill an extra two times." Rob scraped at his cuticles. "I mean, if Herb is willing to force us to perform the hill exercise again, it is possible that he would make Silky do such a thing."

"Let's not lose all sense of proportion in solving this mystery." Mark elbowed his friend in the ribs. "No Christmas tree on God's green Earth is worth that much sweat."

"Whatever you say, Mark." For once tractable, Rob nodded. "After we shower and change, we should head over to the Catholic church and see if our missing tree is hidden in the Nativity."

Mark agreed to this plan, and, when they had finished showering and changing, they left the rink and walked over to the Catholic church. Entering through the gate, they proceeded up the shoveled path to the Nativity that had been constructed near the church's entrance. Leaning closer, they saw Mary and Joseph kneeling near an empty manger, a trio of shepherds, three wise men, a choir of angels, and an attentive array of farm animals, but nothing that bore the faintest resemblance to their Christmas tree or ornaments.

"Nativities are so peaceful," Mark whispered, reluctant to leave the tranquility of this churchyard too soon. "What do you think it was like back there in Bethlehem, Robbie?"

"Childbearing conditions were a lot less sanitary back then." Rob chuckled. "No matter how advanced the Romans were, their sewage system was worse, too. May and Joseph, being poor like most of the population was in the ancient world, probably stank so badly that they didn't even notice the stench of the cattle and donkeys around them. Oh, and when they looked down at their literally perfect son, they knew the same thing our parents did when they gazed down at our woefully sinful selves: the only certainties in life are death and exorbitant taxes. All in all, Magic, the important things haven't changed since that pivotal night in Bethlehem, but the little things have improved markedly, and we probably should be on our knees right now, praising God that we got to experience the miracle that is the flush toilet."

"You're as cynical as Leslie." Mark smiled. "She always says that if there had been three wise women instead of three wise men, the women would have asked for directions to the stable, arrived in time to help Mary deliver Jesus, and brought some practical gifts instead of all the frankincense and myrrh. I tell her that you can't question ineffability, and if there is anyone ineffable, it's God."

"You should also explain to her what I tell my dear fiancée every time she gets mad at me for discovering amazing detours and scenic routes to wherever we're going." Rob snickered. "Men don't get lost. We merely find alternative destinations. That's the daring spirit that first allowed men to venture out of their caves during the Ice Age. Many, of course, froze, but the ones who didn't were a hardy bunch, and we're their descendents."

"Leslie would just roll her eyes at me." Mark clapped Rob on the shoulder. "That's how swayed she'd be by that stunning argument."

"Women." Rob snorted. "They're so impossible to please. Buy them roses for their birthday, and they'll pout because you didn't give them violets. Pick out a beautiful gold bracelet for them to celebrate an anniversary, and they'll hint they would have preferred silver to match their skin tone better. Bring them chocolate-covered pretzels for Valentine's Day, and they'll arch their eyebrows prettily and ask where the chocolate-covered cherries are."

"That never happens to me." Mark's eyes gleamed as they exited the churchyard and walked down the street toward the hotel. He knew that Rob's fiancée expected to be taken to expensive French and Italian restaurants where the entrees required tweezers to eat and the waiters bowed to the diners as every course arrived instead of to cute cafes. She wanted to go see plays at fancy theaters instead of watching popular blockbusters at drive-in movies. She wanted to go on carriage rides through parks instead of hiking up mountains. In short, she made Rob seem low-maintenance and unsophisticated by comparison. Mark would have broken up with her in a week if he had even asked her out in the first place, because the best thing about his relationship with Leslie was the ease of it. He didn't have to worry if she saw him with his hair Medusa-wild or kissed him in the morning before he brushed his teeth. H didn't have to be concerned about being perfect and impressing her. He just had to be himself and know that she loved him for that, just as he loved her for being herself. Still, Mark had to trust that Rob, as obsessed with planning as he was, knew exactly what he wanted in a marriage, and if that was different than what Mark sought, that was Rob's prerogative, since it was his marriage, after all. "She would just be so awed that I remembered Valentine's Day that she wouldn't even care if I brought her chocolate-covered cockroaches."

"Lovely. I knew only someone with low standards would ever agree to marry you." Rob's mouth twisted ironically. "Well, anyway, when we get back to the hotel, we can see if we can get directions to any other churches in Lake Placid that might have a Nativity for us to investigate."

"Sounds like a good idea," replied Mark as they stepped into the lobby and were immediately enveloped in the hotel's warm embrace.

"Over to the concierge we go, then," Rob chirped, sidling over to the marble desk behind which sat a pinched-faced woman whose features suggested she had just swallowed a particularly sour lemon.

"Good evening, ma'am," said Rob, putting on his broadest, most winning beam as they reached the concierge's desk. "My friend and I are guests here, and we were wondering if you would be so kind as to give us directions to some local churches."

"Is there any particular denomination you're interested in?" pressed the woman, arching an eyebrow. "We have churches in Lake Placid that run the gamut from strait-laced Catholicism to hand-waving Pentecostal. The more information you provide about what you want in a church, the more helpful I can be in your search."

"My friend and I are vaguely Protestant." Rob's smile was growing faker by the second. "We like to church hop and attend whatever church seems the best wherever we are in the world at that time. We scope all the churches out before Sunday, so we know where to go for the best sound system and most comfortable seating."

"We want to hear God's Word clearly and in comfort," Mark put, eyes expanding earnestly. "Otherwise, if you can't hear God's word and focus on it instead of squirming in your pew, what's the point of getting up early on a Sunday morning?"

"Your mothers must be so proud of your devotion." The woman's pursed lips indicated she felt they were the type of miserable, lost souls God would turn away from heaven on principle no matter how many Sunday mornings they spent praying. "Anyway, I can provide you with a complimentary list of the names and addresses of Lake Placid's charming churches."

"Thank you." Mark accepted the list of churches she thrust across the desk at him. "I'm sure this will be very helpful."

"Yes, and do you happen to have a map of Lake Placid?" added Rob, as the woman emitted an impatient sigh, as if they were wasting her valuable time, even though there were no other guests seeking assistance waiting behind them. "That would help us plan our route more efficiently and avoid getting lost."

"Here you go." Snappishly, the concierge practically threw the map across the counter at Rob. "It's complimentary, too. Now, is there anything else I can help you with or can I get back to doing my job?"

"No, you've been more than helpful enough already." Rob appeared to have determined that this was the perfect opportunity for a passive-aggressive Mac Attack of Sarcasm, and Mark wasn't about to claim the prickly concierge didn't deserve this treatment. "I hope that when you travel, ma'am, everyone will be just as friendly to you as you were to us."

As he and Rob walked away from the desk toward vacant chairs in the lobby where they could examine the map and list they had just acquired to plan their Nativity search strategy, Mark whispered to Rob's, "Silly me, I thought helping guests _was _her job. You would think a career in customer service would require some basic people skills, but you'd be wrong. I would be politer if strangers on the street asked me for directions to the nearest church, and I'm not a concierge. My parents just taught me nothing justifies being rude."

"At least we're wiser." Rob wore an expression of mock sagacity. "Now we know that, if Herb ever tires of coaching, he could have a meteoric career as a concierge. I can picture him now, screaming at guests that if they were really hungry, they'd take some initiative and book their own reservations."

"We're learning so much from solving this mystery already," Mark commented dryly, plopping onto an upholstered sofa across from Rob and leaning over the coffee table where Rob was spreading the map and list. "I look forward to refreshing my orienteering skills next."

"No wonder this map was complimentary." Rob's face was a twisted mask of distaste. "It's a piece of garbage. Right on the bottom in miniature font it says the map isn't to scale, which makes it as practical as a compass that doesn't point north. I designed better maps of hiking trails my first year at sleep-away camp, and I'd just graduated first grade. I wasn't a genius at cartography by any stretch of the imagination, but at least I attempted a scale. It wasn't very accurately measured, but it sure as heck was better than nothing."

"This map has attractive little icons to compensate for the lack of scale." Mark grinned. "Look, it's got tiny knives and forks designating all the restaurants. No, on closer investigation, only some of the restaurants are marked with those helpful little icons."

"Whoever designed this map unquestionably had their priorities straight." All derision, Rob sneered. "Who cares if, based on the non-existent scale on the map, people can't tell whether they're about to bump into a café upon rounding a corner or if they're going to wander the streets for eternity before finding somewhere to eat, as long as some of the restaurants are accompanied by cute icons? Oh, and if you're going to use icons to mark restaurants, you should darn well do that all the time, not just when you feel like it."

"There was probably some logic to the seeming madness of which restaurants earned an icon and which didn't," speculated Mark. "I'd bet a pretty penny that all the restaurants with icons paid the hotel extra for the privilege."

"At an establishment like this, classy marketing like that wouldn't surprise me." Rob rolled his eyes, and then continued, grabbing a hotel pen from a cup on the table and sketching a grid on the map as he spoke, "I'm going to try to make this map more useful than the cartographers who designed it ever could. If I draw four lines vertically on the page, I can label them A,B,C, and D. Then I can draw four lines horizontally, and label them 1,2,3, and 4. Now I have a grid with sixteen sections. We can plug in the address of each church as a data point on our grid—"

"Then we can see where the points cluster, and that will tell us which areas we should target our search on," finished Mark, sensing where his friend was headed with this idea, and rather impressed by Rob's methodical problem-solving. "That way we don't waste any time and energy."

"Exactly." Rob gave the satisfied smirk he often did when someone appreciated his brilliance. "Now, if you wouldn't mind reading me the names and addresses of each of the churches, I can plot each one on our grid, recording its initials and street number for quick reference."

"No problem." Mark swiftly scanned the list of churches. "You'll be happy to know that, apart from the Catholic church, there are only six churches in Lake Placid."

Once Rob had finished graphing on their modified map the names and addresses Mark reeled off from the list, Rob examined their grid for a moment and then announced, "How convenient. Two churches, a Baptist and a Methodist, are located in B2. One, a Pentecostal, is located in C2. Two churches, a Lutheran and an Episcopalian, are in C3. One church, a Presbyterian, is in B3. Basically, that limits our search to four parts of the map."

"I'll look at the churches in B2 and C2," said Mark, studying the distance between data points on the grid. "Meanwhile, you can search the churches in B3 and C3. We'll meet in the town square, which is on the axis between B2, C2, C3, and B3 when we're done with our explorations. We'll report there on any leads we should investigate together or bring the tree if we have managed to recover it. If we haven't found anything, we'll buy some dinner and then return to the hotel so we can rest and be rejuvenated for tomorrow."

"Sounds like we've got the marching orders for our battle plan." Rob ripped the map in half horizontally and handed Mark the piece with B2 and C2. "Here's the map to the area you need to search. See you in about an hour, unless the map's terrible lack of scale gets either of us in trouble."

Mark's portion of the investigation turned out to be the epitome of futile. The Baptist church, showing the denomination's characteristic aversion for iconography, had no Nativity whatsoever either inside or outside the church doors. The Methodist one had a very simple Nativity by the altar, but it was immediately obvious that no Christmas tree was lurking inside it. Finally, the Pentecostal church had a rather gaudy Nativity on its lawn, but no Christmas tree was part of its ostentation.

Swallowing his disappointment, Mark headed over to the town square, where he slid onto a bench, passing the time while he waited for Rob to arrive by watching a horde of squealing children hop exuberantly into the gigantic sleigh in the center of the square. Seeing them crack the reins as they urged the fake reindeer attached to the sleigh to fly faster and higher, Mark reflected that he missed being that young and free. He wished that these laughing boys and girls never stopped believing in flying reindeer and Santa Claus…

"Let me guess." Rob's crisp vice cut into Mark's musings as his roommate sat down alongside him. "You found nothing, Sherlock."

"Yep." Mark bobbed his head in confirmation. "That just about sums up the dazzling results of my investigation. What about you, Watson? What did you learn?"

"The Lutherans had a quite attractive Nativity, the Episcopalians a very traditional one as if they were trying to be even more formal than the Catholics, and the Presbyterians had an extremely plain one" reported Rob. "None of them had a single Christmas tree, nonetheless one that resembled ours. What a sad oversight by all those church decoration committees."

"Well, at least we'll get to enjoy some New York pizza." Bracingly, Mark pointed at a pizzeria on the opposite side of the square. "They say New York pizza is the best in the country, and I'm sure tomorrow we'll come up with another way of interpreting our new clue. This is only the beginning, not the end, of our search."

"Right." Rob rose and strode toward the pizzeria. "We're definitely going to figure this out. Dad always says that if you work hard and don't stop using your brain, you'll out-think about ninety-eight percent of the population, because a vast majority of people are intellectually lazy, and that's a big reason why America is in such dire financial straits."

"What about the other two percent of the population?" asked Mark, lifting an eyebrow and noting inwardly that this sounded exactly like the advice a lawyer would give his son. No wonder Rob made almost anyone seem lazy by comparison.

"That's the two percent of people who are born smarter than you and work harder than you. They're the one who will cackle gleefully as they trample over you and your ambitions." Rob's mouth pressed into a grim line as they entered the doughy-smelling pizzeria. "Fortunately, neither Rizzo nor Silky are bright enough to be in that group. Verchota and Baker, quick studies that they are, could certainly outsmart us if they put their minds to it, but, honestly, Rizzo and Silky combined don't have the brains of _one _of us, Mark, so we're totally going to win our war against them."


	8. Chapter 8

Burn Bright

When Mark walked into the locker room the next day, his attention was immediately captured by another message on the blackboard. This time, the white chalkboard blared in all capitals: BREIBO NAD AKRM- HO MRICSASHT ERTE OHW VENREGERE ERA RYOU AESCHBR.

Hoping this gibberish translated into another clue about where the Christmas tree was hidden, Mark fumbled around in his windbreaker pocket, found a pen that he hoped still had ink in it, and scribbled down the jumble of letters on the only scrap of paper he could locate easily: a tattered bubblegum wrapper from inside his jeans pocket.

"What language is that in?" Bill asked, jerking his head at the note on the chalkboard.

"Pig Latin?" suggested Mike Ramsey, shrugging.

"Not even a pig could mess up Latin that badly," OC answered, shaking his head. "Try again, boys."

"It's all Greek to me." Phil Verchota raised and lowered his broad shoulders in a shrug.

"That's definitely not Greek. You can't envision that being written on the Acropolis, can you?" Bill's gaze narrowed as he scrutinized the letters on the board. "I'm not even convinced that _is _a language. There seems to be no semantic pattern to the way any of the letters in the various words are grouped. Every word appears to follow its own linguistic rules. That indicates either the message was not written in any language known to mankind, or else that it is written in several different languages with distinct semantic patterns."

"The word 'era' appears," put in Eric Strobel helpfully. "Maybe you're on the right track about the message being written in several different languages. How original. I only wish I were well-educated enough to understand them all to better appreciate the artistic genius behind the message."

"You're all over-thinking this." Neal Broten chuckled as every eye in the locker room focused on him. "That message is written in exactly the same language my papers are when I put them off too long, try to pull an all-nighter, and fall asleep at my typewriter, collapsing on the keyboard with my forehead pressing random buttons until my roommate manages to shake me awake in the morning."

"Be honest," teased Dave Christian, nudging his best friend on the team in the ribs. "You talk and write in that language all the time."

"This is ridiculous," Rob snapped, stalking up to the blackboard and erasing the note with zeal. "We're putting more thought and effort into interpreting this stupid message than the idiot who produced it put into writing it."

"How would you know how much thought and effort the person who wrote the message put into it?" challenged Silky, arching a keen eyebrow. "Are you confessing to be being—to use your eloquent phrasing—the idiot who produced it?"

His eyes hard and burning as coals, Rob opened his mouth to retort but was mercifully cut off by Buzz, who observed lightly, "Whoever wrote the note probably isn't stupid. Whoever it was most likely just wanted a little bit of attention and a few laughs. I'll bet it's just a joke."

"Yeah, whoever wrote the message is probably just a dirty attention hog," agreed Rob, all tartness as he treated Rizzo and Silky to a glare that could have cracked mortar. "Naturally, such a brat wouldn't care whether the attention was positive or negative—"

"So, of course, the best solution would be to just ignore it, and the person will stop leaving annoying messages once the little notes aren't getting any more attention," Mark finished firmly, shooting his left-winger a repressive glance that meant _behave_. "Mom always said that if you want someone to stop bothering you, most of the time just ignoring them will do the trick, and my mother is always right. She told me so herself, and she is never wrong—"

"Because she is always right," completed Rizzo, who obviously felt he had gone too long this morning without speaking. "Gotta love the circular logic of mothers everywhere."

"Actually, as I was going to explain before I was so rudely interrupted, the ideal solution wouldn't be ignoring the message writer." Rob's terse tone announced to the whole team that he wasn't planning on behaving for anyone. "The best solution would be giving the person in question a powerful whack upside the head, but that, tragically, will have to wait until the guilty party is uncovered."

"Everyone has a different idea for solving problems. That's one of our team's great strengths, I think." Buzz grinned to relax some of the tension slicing through the room like a knife. "Anyway, Bah, have you seen any good movies lately?"

The topic of movies they had seen recently and films they wanted to watch carried them through the remainder of their preparation for practice, providing Mark with a chance to ruminate over the chalkboard clue now that he did not have to worry about preventing Rob from ripping off the heads of assorted teammates. The letters in the message were an incomprehensible mumbo jumbo, but they were organized into distinct units of sounds like words. That suggested they had to mean something. Maybe he and Rob had to rearrange the letters into English words, unscrambling the letters of the puzzle into words that made sense, but that would take a lot more time than Mark had right now…

He was trying to shift the letters he remembered into words that might be relevant to the Christmas tree hunt as he slipped onto the bench to watch the beginning of the scrimmage Herb had set up for today's practice, but he was denied the opportunity to make much progress in this endeavor by Rob, who had slid in beside him, griping, "I want to throttle Rizzo. And disembowel Silky. And draw and quarter Buzz—"

"Thanks for being so open about your feelings." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mark thought that he and Rob had better find their Christmas tree soon before Rob turned into a homicidal maniac on a murderous rampage to destroy any teammate who aggravated him in the slightest. "It might be faster, though, if you just listed the teammates you aren't daydreaming of executing in very creative ways."

"I'm suddenly having vivid fantasies of burning you at the stake." Rob scowled, plainly not amused by being interrupted mid-rant.

"At least I'm in good company on your death list." Sighing, Mark thought it was going to be a long practice if Rob was determined to be as prickly as a cactus today as he had been yesterday.

"You have no taste if you think that Rizzo, Silky, and Buzz make good company." Rob snorted contemptuously. "I wouldn't be friends with any of them if they were the last people on Earth after a nuclear fallout."

"Come on." With an exertion of will, Mark confined himself to a mental eye roll at his left-winger's bullheadedness. "I understand that you've persuaded yourself that Rizzo and Silky are filthy sneak thieves, but what has Buzz done to deserve your eternal loathing? He is the self-appointed grandpa of our team. The one who gets up early to bake us a stack of pancakes when we don't have morning practices and who tells us funny stories about all the World Championship teams he has been on. There's really nothing to dislike about Buzz."

In fact, of him and Rob, Mark thought that he would have a better reason to bear a grudge against Buzz. Buzz had been a member of that 1976 Olympic hockey team that Mark as a senior in high school had nearly made but had been kicked off of because his dad, the coach, feared the charges of nepotism wouldn't be fair to either of them. Buzz had been one of the two Gophers on that Olympic team who made piqued remarks to the press about how Mark was just another high school kid whenever the team lost a training game, never mind that Mark had accumulated eleven points in eleven games…

But professional hockey players did not harbor grudges. They knew nothing related to the sport was personal unless they imagined it to be so. They understood that yesterday's rival could become today's teammate, and today's teammate could be transformed into tomorrow's rival. They were prepared to work with anyone whenever it was necessary for team success, and Buzz was too warm a personality to be at all disagreeable to work with. Besides, Mark figured that in the war waged between the Gophers and the Badgers, no one was entirely innocent.

After all, he had been guilty himself of reporting Steve Christoff to a referee for not wearing a mouthguard near the conclusion of a Badger-Gopher showdown. He had been a lot less concerned with the opposing player's safety and more with the ten minute penalty Steve would receive for not wearing a mouthguard. Steve later told Mark that Herb made him skate for a half hour around the arena after the following day's practice, getting lectured by Herb all the while on the importance of mouthguards.

Sometimes, Mark wondered if he had to go back in time and repeat that action knowing what he did now if he would have the guts to do so. It was one thing that to a helmeted player you perceived only as an opponent, but once you had talked and laughed with a person, it was harder to crush their dreams with abandon. Back then, Mark hadn't even known about the muscle-melting torture that being skated as a punishment could be. At Wisconsin, whatever Herb might have believed on the contrary, they trained intensely, because on game day you didn't just smile, show up unprepared, and hope for the best, but Dad never skated his players as a punishment. Dad would never have wanted any of his teams to associate something they should love—skating hard and fast—with a punishment to be avoided at all costs, while Herb's enlightened view seemed to be that his players were welcome to hate anything they liked as long as they became faster skaters with stronger endurance. Maybe, Mark reflected, that was part of the reason he had smashed his stick against the glass in Oslo. Perhaps he had simply been unable to tolerate another second of being forced to hate something he loved—of having one of his passions in life stolen from him Herbie by agonizing Herbie. Maybe the stick smashing had been nothing more than his way of saying, _"I break, too, and I won't play hockey for you if you make me hate it." _

So, the question was, aware of how much of a torment a punishment skate could be, would he have intentionally put Steve through that just to get a ten minute power play? The competitive half of Mark—the part that loved nothing more than to win—screamed yes, while his compassionate side yelled at him for even considering such cruelty. He supposed he would just have to file the whole matter under questions he would rather not have answered about himself…

"Are you back from the moon yet, or should I find somebody else to talk to who won't space out on me mid-conversation?" Rob's palm wave in front of Mark's eyes yanked him out of his musings.

"Sorry." Mark shook his head to clear it and regain his focus on his currently mercurial line mate. "I was lost in thought there for a moment."

"Obviously." Rob rolled his eyes. "Anyway, what you missed while your brain was wandering among the stars was me explaining that I hate Buzz because he redirected the conversation when my fierce questioning might have forced Rizzo or Silky to make some sort of revealing confession."

"Well, if you didn't want to have someone interrupt your interrogation, you shouldn't have resorted to threats of violence," Mark informed his friend dryly. "We're a couple of centuries beyond the Spanish Inquisition, you see."

"Threats of violence are very effective at getting recalcitrant people to talk," muttered Rob, chin lifting in revolt.

"Not necessarily with honesty, though." Mark's eyes widened earnestly. "That's why confessions under duress are useless. I mean, you could get me to admit to being a Martian if you tortured me long enough."

"I always knew you were a Martian." Rob elbowed Mark in the ribs. "You were just dispatched here by your evil alien overlords to make us Earthlings look terrible at hockey, and I'm such a grand interrogator that only I could get the truth out of you. Admit it."

"Yeah, right." Mark nudged Rob back. "You're such a marvelous interrogator that you forgot to ask me a single question."

"I'm such a skilled interrogator I don't need to lower myself to asking questions." Haughtily, Rob tilted his nose in the air. "I just make statement that my subjects immediately feel the urge to confirm or deny. Their confirmations or denials always prove my suspicions correct."

"Ah." Mark snickered. "That would probably be solid evidence that you hear only what you want to hear, Mac."

Before Rob, who was opening his mouth to respond to this assertion, could reply, Herb blew his whistle and barked, "Broten's line, replace the Coneheads. Johnson's line, you're in for Verchota's. Christian and O'Callahan, you're on defense near Janny's net. Baker and Ramsey, you're playing defense for Craig's side. Move with a purpose, gentleman! Hockey games are won or lost by substitution speed!"

Seconds later, everybody who was supposed to be on ice was in position, and all those who were intended to be off it were settled on the bench. Facing off against a smiling Neal at center ice, Mark felt totally at ease and focused as he waited for Herb to drop the puck. This was how he relaxed. This was how he had fun. Being on ice was, simply put, the best feeling in the world.

The puck slipped from Herb's fingers, and time seemed to slow, providing Mark an eternity in which to follow the puck's trajectory to ice—to anticipate where his stick needed to be to seize the puck before Neal did. The puck hit the ice, and Mark's stick slid around it a second before Neal's did.

Mark twisted around Neal, protecting the puck with his body and discovered, when he emerged from his twirl that, somehow, Neal was still in front of him. Mark continued down the ice, shifting the puck from side to side as often as necessary to shield it from Neal's repeated attempts to steal it, and trying to skate around Neal several times, always to find Neal still stubbornly keeping pace with him.

Midway through his third spin, Mark spotted OC surging forward to confront him, dangerous as a hornet with a menaced hive. Deciding that it was definitely time to pass, Mark feigned a shot to Eric, whom Dave Christian instantly glided into cover like a German Shepherd on guard duty, and then sent the puck sailing toward Rob.

Rob, on a burst of speed, dashed toward the net, his jaw clenched with his trademark determination and intensity. Seeing where he was headed, OC quickly fell back to close in on the net like an oyster protecting its pearl. Dave, too, drifted nearer to the goal, leaving Eric open.

Rapidly, Rob fired a shot, which bounced off Janny's pad. The puck streaked toward the right boards, where Eric was there a fraction before Dave. In one fluid motion, he hit the puck and sent it flying smoothly through Janny's legs into the net.

After blowing his whistle sharply to ensure that he had everyone's attention, Herb rapped out his corrections, "McClanahan, I don't know how many times I'll have to tell you to aim higher on a shot like that before you take a hint and _do _it. Janny, you shouldn't have given up that rebound. Catch the puck with your glove or pass it to one of your defensemen, but don't send the puck flying toward the boards. O'Callahan, you're allowed to move to the right side of the net to help block a shot from that direction. Skates have blades for a purpose: so you can change your positioning. As for you, Christian, do you see anything you could have done differently?"

Hoping that Herb would restrain himself from tearing into Dave too harshly, Mark bit his lip. As far as Mark was concerned, it was very brave of Dave, who hadn't played defense in years, to agree without any sort of grumbling to fill in Bob's place as a defenseman until his injury healed. Moreover, it was not as if Dave played defense pathetically. Normally, his quick wits and swift skates allowed him to fulfill his duties with alacrity, and, even when he was out of position, those traits usually permitted him to compensate for his mistakes. Dave was doing well in a position that he was unused to playing, but naturally, Herb would never compliment him on that, just as he would not praise Eric for a beautiful goal. As always, it would be left to the team to pat each other on the back.

"I guess I could have positioned myself better, Coach," Dave replied after a moment's pause. "I should have positioned myself so that I could block the net and cover Eric at the same time."

"You guess right." Brusquely, Herb nodded. "Next time, shift it up a gear, and _do _it right."

He glared around at all the players assembled on ice as if to strip the all of any lingering delusions that their performances had been remotely adequate and then shouted, "I want the next lines out on the ice in under three seconds. Give me some proof that I've got a team of college students, not geriatrics."

"Yes, sir," chirped Neal in an undertone, offering an ironic salute that Herb, skating with his back to them as they glided toward the bench, apparently missed. Neal wasn't timid about being cheeky since he seemed to be too upbeat and gifted for even Herb to harangue. "Right away, sir. Hope we all don't fail inspection, sir."

"I certainly failed inspection," Dave remarked gloomily, as they clambered over the boards and flopped onto the bench. "Herb all but told me I'm completely defective as a defenseman."

"You aren't defective at all!" protested Neal with a squeak, spraying water he had just gulped from his bottle over everybody within a yard's vicinity. "You've done a great job stepping to the plate now that Bobby's out with his broken ankle. I would be peeing in my pads every time I went onto the ice if I had to play an unfamiliar position, but you're so smart and calm about it. Every time I see you play defense, I'm just amazed by how poised you are, you know."

"Neal is not barking up the wrong tree for once." Eric smiled. "You're learning how to play a different position than you're used to. Herb will be as patient as he can be with you, because even he can't expect you to pick up on everything without making a few mistakes now and then."

"Electric's right." Rob reached around Mark to give Dave an affectionate tap on the helmet. Obviously, now that Eric had scored, Rob felt free to ease up on himself and his teammates. For the rest of practice, he would probably be all hugs and encouragement. As long as his line scored, Rob defined his progress as successful or at least acceptable, even if he had not gotten the goal, but he became very tightly wound when he believed their line had failed to deliver on their potential. "Herb would never have switched you to defense if he didn't have faith in your creativity, flexibility, and quickness. I've seen at the U Herb dump players into the deep end of a different position to see if they'll sink or swim. If they sink, he tells them they looked like a chicken skating around with its head cut off, and he won't bother trying to teach them the new position, because he knows they'll never get it. If they swim, though, he'll let them work out the nuts and bolts of that position without being too overbearing and critical. Just keep learning from your mistakes, Dave, and remind yourself whenever you to that, since Herb has already played you as a defenseman more than once, you've already swam in his eyes."

Both his wingers, Mark realized with a jolt, were speaking from experience. Even though, as a Badger, he had faced off against both Rob and Eric as centers, it was easy for him to forget that both of them had played center throughout their hockey careers. He got so caught up in thinking of them as his wingers, he didn't remember that Rob and Eric probably perceived themselves as centers playing the role of wingers. He supposed that it was a tribute to the skills of his line mates in their assumed roles as wingers that he never really thought of them as centers. Maybe he should remember that they were star centers in high school and college a bit more, he decided with a twinge of guilt. He didn't want to step on their toes by saying or doing something stupid—to make them feel as if they were stuck playing second fiddle to him when they had been the ones who played dutifully for Herb for four long years.

"You're doing wonderful, too, Electric," added Rob, wrapping Eric in an awkward, one-armed embrace. "Yesterday, when I said that your moments of greatness didn't begin to cancel out you slacking off the rest of the time, I forgot how brilliant you are when you're on. Thanks for being on today when we needed you to score."

"Thanks for being on every day, Mac." Eric returned Rob's hug. "I admire that about you, and I wish I could do it myself, but…"

"It doesn't matter," interjected Rob vehemently. "You're a brilliant player, and I couldn't stand the competition if you were on fire all the time. You shining occasionally is really all I can take without being cast into the shadows."

"What a pack of lies!" Eric exclaimed, laughing. "You're so intense that I know you'd shine all the brighter with more competition."

"Our line is going to shine very bright today." Mark smiled, thinking that line mates were like siblings. Sometimes they argued; other times, they comforted one another. Sometimes they taunted and goaded each other; other times they defended and helped one another. Sometimes they felt like they had nothing in common; other times they were closer than bread and butter. Sometimes they failed to communicate with results that ranged from the comical to the disastrous; other times they read one another's minds. Sometimes they hogged the puck; other times they shared with remarkable generosity and selflessness. Sometimes they competed other times they cooperated. There were good days and bad ones, but they were always one unit, and now they were one unit glad to be facing what was shaping up to be a good day for them. Drawing reflexively on one of Dad's favorite compliments, he went on, "We scored the prettiest goal today, boys. I'm so proud of us."


	9. Chapter 9

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

"You'll be happy to hear that I managed to record the message on the blackboard before you erased it in a huff," Mark informed Rob, as they entered their hotel room after practice and shut the door behind them.

"What a relief." Rob pretended to swipe a stream of sweat off his forehead with the cuff of his sleeve. "All practice I was agonizing over whether that bunch of gibberish would be preserved for posterity. I'm ecstatic to hear that it will be around for future generations to marvel over as they would the pyramids in Egypt."

"I didn't say it was one of the Seven Wonders of the World," answered Mark, removing the bubblegum wrapper on which he had copied the hint from his pocket and deciding it was time to give his roommate a challenge to sink his teeth into before his tongue became unbearably sharp and sarcastic. "I just was implying that it was a clue to help us find our missing tree."

"Stolen." Rob pressed his lips together. "Stolen, not just missing. Precision of language is very important to solving a mystery, and when you say 'missing' it sounds as if we misplaced our tree when really it was taken from us by so-called friends."

"Our _stolen _tree, then," conceded Mark, accepting the correction as gracefully as he could and praying, not for the first time, for an infinite reservoir of patience to deal with his left-winger's need for exactness in everything. "If we want to find our stolen tree, we'll have to figure out how to interpret this clue."

"Maybe." Rob's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Or perhaps the hints in the locker room aren't meant to lead us to our tree, after all. Our tree could be somewhere else entirely, and Rizzo and Silky just think it is amusing to imagine us scurrying around like rats following the clues that will never bring us to our tree."

"You have a sick imagination," muttered Mark, scratching at his chin as he forced himself to listen to this perverse logic.

"I have to." Unabashed, Rob shrugged. "Our teammates have macabre ideas of the humorous."

"Well," stated Mark after a moment's reflection, "I'm not suggesting that your point isn't valid and worthy of keeping in mind as we proceed with our search for the tree, but I'm not certain it should change our next move. I mean, helpful or not, the clues at least provide direction for our investigation. If we don't have some sort of focus, we would go crazy running around Lake Placid looking for our tree. When it comes down to it, I figure that the hints are the best search patter we have at the moment, Robbie."

"You're right." Rob nodded. "I'm merely pointing out that we always need to keep in mind that, in mysteries, nothing is as it seems, and the only thing that can be expected is the unexpected."

"Thanks for the reminder to always be prepared for a hearty serving of red herring." Grinning, Mark crossed over to sit at the desk, spreading the bubblegum wrapper with the clue out in front of him. "Let's begin to crack our next hint."

He waited for Rob to join him, perching on the place where the Christmas tree had once occupied on the desk, and then went on, "I'm thinking that this clue is a sort of word puzzle in which we have to rearrange the letters into English words that make sense together. Every time there is a space, I believe that signals the start of a new word, so this message probably has eleven words we need to unscramble."

"The first four words should be pretty easy," Rob observed. "If your word puzzle theory is accurate and I don't have a better idea of what to do with the jumble of gibberish, the first word is my name horribly misspelled, the second is a terribly mangled rendition of 'and,' and the third is your name gone through a food processor. Then there is only one way that the two letters of the fourth word can be reorganized. Our fourth word would seem to be 'oh.'"

Grabbing a sheet of the hotel's complimentary stationery (which they were using far more of than Mark had envisioned when they arrived days ago) and a pen with the hotel's name etched in script from the holder, Rob wrote the word 'oh' down in neat letters. As he did so, he smirked, "Perhaps this is a love note, not a clue. That's a new way to declare undying love: write a nonsensical message on a locker room chalkboard."

"Perhaps it's not a declaration of love. Maybe it's just an expression of brief infatuation." Mark smiled and then commented, "Well, Rob, we were quick out of the gate, but the engine might have just stalled. The next word is a little longer than the others were."

"You're so easily intimidated, Magic." Rob clicked his tongue in admonishment. "The word following it can be rearranged to spell 'tree'—" Here, he paused to record the word 'tree' on the stationery—"and the second word has the letters 'c' and 'h' somewhere in it. Now, what type of tree that might be relevant to our case has the letters 'c' and 'h' at the beginning of the name?"

"A Christmas tree." Mark's eyes glittered with all the excitement of fresh snow as Rob added the word 'Christmas' to the stationery between 'oh' and 'tree.' "Oh Christmas tree! It's lyrics to a Christmas carol, just like the first clue was."

"Yep." Clearly not enjoying this even half as much as Mark, Rob snorted. "It seems the fool who wrote these hints needs to readjust the bunny ears of his television and get with the program. This isn't a _Christmas Carol_. It's a mystery."

"If this were a _Christmas Carol_, you'd be Scrooge." Mark snickered. "Before the transformation, that is."

"And you'd be Tiny Tim, because you're short and weak," retorted Rob. "Buzz would be Bob Crachit and that bit of casting is so perfect it requires no explanation. Rizzo would be the Ghost of Christmas Present because he's hyperactive and never shuts his trap. Pav would be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come because he never talks and just gestures. Hey, maybe our team could put on a production of a _Christmas Carol _as fundraiser. Then we could splurge on cutlets for Chicken Parmesan instead of eating Rizzo's nine thousand pasta dishes."

"As if Herb would ever let play rehearsal distract from hockey practice." Mark shook his head as if to cleanse it of the idiocy of this notion. "That doesn't mean we can't create our own cheesy Christmas special in our downtime, though. I'm sure that we'll discover the Christmas tree we seek as soon as you find the Christmas spirit buried in your hard heart, Mac."

"What a vomit-inducing concept." Rob smirked. "Could we change the channel back to reality from wild fantasy?"

"Come on." Mark chuckled. "You know, Paul explicitly stated in the epistle to the Corinthians that tragically got lost in the mail—because the Roman post was good, but not _that _good—that he who has not Christmas in his heart shall never find his Christmas tree."

"My lie detector is blaring on that one." Rob rolled his eyes. "Christmas trees weren't invented until around the nineteenth century in Germany, so Paul would never have talked about them even in a lost epistle."

"He was divinely inspired," countered Mark wryly. "He could write whatever he wanted. It's one of the prerogatives of divine inspiration, remember?"

"How could I forget?" All innocence, Rob twirled his pen between his fingers. "Being so often divinely inspired myself?"

"Feeling any divine inspiration about the rest of the clue?" asked Mark, waving his hand at the bubblegum wrapper.

"Prophets cannot _see _upon command, Mark!" Scandalized, Rob gasped. Then, he continued in a more conversational, less melodramatic tone, "Anyway, the final words of the hint look like a continuation of the lyrics you noticed earlier. I think the rest of the gibberish translates into 'how evergreen are your branches.'"

"The letters all correspond." After a moment of scrutinizing the letters of the last five words to ensure that each one was accounted for, Mark nodded. "Evergreen. Do you think that might be a suggestion to search for our tree among its real counterparts?"

"I think it is," Rob announced decisively after a pensive pause. "Trees would work with the previous clue, too, because you could make a manger with wood from an evergreen, couldn't you?"

"I'm no carpenter, but I would assume so," responded Mark. "I noticed a trail off the hotel grounds that seems as if it goes through some evergreen groves. We could see if our Christmas tree is hidden somewhere along it."

"A hike through the wilderness of upstate New York." Beaming with the light of an upcoming challenge, Rob pushed himself off the desk. "Lucky we practiced our orienteering skills yesterday."

Five minutes later, bundled in down coats, hats, gloves, boots, and thermal socks, they stepped onto the trail. Crunching through the snow, Mark thought that, even if they didn't find their missing Christmas tree, this experience wouldn't be so bad. White icicles glistened from branches like holiday lights, and everything was silent except for the muffled sounds of their feet sloshing a path through the woods. The trees stretched into the distance, and he could imagine that they reached all the way to the Arctic, so that he and Rob could hike up there if they wished and didn't have a game to play tomorrow.

"That oak still has an acorn on it," Rob commented. A second later, he jumped up, snatched a snow-covered acorn from the limb of a giant oak towering above their heads, and wrenched the bottom of the nut away from the top. Then he tossed the bottom into the snow bank on the side of the trail and lifted the top to his lips, blowing into it to emit a series of piercing whistles.

"It's the mournful song of the beached humpback whale lost in the woods," Mark teased. "You are pretty good at that acorn top music, though. I never could manage to whistle with an acorn."

"You can't whistle with an acorn?" echoed Rob, blinking at Mark in amazement. "No offense, but…"

"How reassuring," Mark mumbled. "That's how people always begin when they know what they're going to say is rude, but they can't be bothered to rephrase."

"By my standards, it's not too rude." Slyly, Rob smiled. "Anyway, as I was going to say before you so inconsiderately interrupted my brilliant observation, whistling with an acorn is so easy. How can you not know how to do it?"

"It's easy for you, not for me," explained Mark, shaking his head. "I've tried many times, but I've never been able to do it."

"You do it like this," Rob said, showing Mark how he pressed his thumbs up close against each other in front of his mouth where it held the acorn top and then dumped it into Mark's outstretched palm. "It's simple, you see."

Knowing that he was probably going to fail at acorn whistling as he had on so many hikes before, Mark attempted to imitate Rob, but he couldn't figure out how to make those little wedges with his thumbs on the wooden cap and blow through his knuckles to produce a shrill whistle. After several botched attempts that Rob, watching, managed not to laugh at, Mark's clumsy fingers shattered the acorn top.

"I'm hopeless." Mark sighed. "Good thing I never wanted to play the flute or anything."

"Don't worry." Rob clapped him on the shoulder as he threw the pieces of the acorn cap into the forest. "We'll find you another acorn top to learn to whistle on sometime."

Mark opened his mouth to reply that further humiliation of this sort would not be necessary, but ended up closing it again without a word. It was a sign of friendship that Rob refused to give up on him learning how to whistle with an acorn top, and he wasn't going to reject it.

"It took me awhile to figure out how to acorn whistle on hikes at sleep-away camp," Rob continued, as if sharing stories of his past failures would be a real consolation for his companion's current embarrassment. "I might have been the last boys in my cabin to master it, but I was the best at soccer and tennis."

Having absolutely no complications picturing a young but no less intense Rob McClanahan motivating himself for any real or imagined competition by constantly comparing his progress to that of his cabin mates, Mark remarked, "That last bit doesn't exactly send me into shock. You played tennis and soccer in high school, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Rob's eyes sparkled in a way that probably meant he was recalling all the awards he had achieved in those sports. "I had to have something to keep me busy during the off-season, you know. I had to get the blood pounding in my veins with some healthy competition, and, anyway, I wouldn't want the neighbors gossiping about me lounging around watching television in the den like a total couch potato."

"Were soccer and tennis your favorite activities at camp?" Mark asked, willing to bet they had not offered hockey at the summer camp Rob had attended.

"Nah, my favorite activity was an unorganized one." Rob smirked, obviously reminiscing on past misdeeds. "After lights-out, the boys in my cabin and I would all pull out our flashlights, hold them under our chins, and share the sort of unsophisticated, tasteless jokes elementary school boys believe are the height of hilarity. Gosh, I remember it so clearly—there we'd all be, listening in the dark with lunatic grins of anticipation on our faces, barely able to restrain ourselves until finally whoever was telling the joke would reach the punchline. Then we'd dive into the depths of our sleeping bags, out of control, howling and snorting, thinking nobody could hear us, although, of course, in the peaceful stillness of the forest night, we must have sounded like water buffalo giving birth over a PA system. Then our bedraggled counselor would storm out of his room, telling us that he was really tired of this, night after night, and if he heard one more sounds out of us, we'd have to clean the latrine the next day."

"Yuck." Mark wrinkled his nose, thinking that ranked high on the disgusting scale.

"Yeah, it was a serious threat," Rob confirmed, leaping over a log on the trail. "It was one of those very odorous summer camp latrines where you wondered how it could possibly be so revolting when nobody ever had had the courage to use it. Evidently, somewhere along the line, it had reached Critical Latrine Mass and developed a lifestyle of its own. Anyway, after delivering this threat, our counselor would stalk back into his room, and there would be silence for maybe a minute. Then there would be this tiny whisper, so faint only a trained ear could discern it, and it would be the joker repeating the punchline. Of course, this resulted in a situation where, never mind having to clean the latrine, never mind that our counselor was standing in the middle of the cabin clutching a weighty flashlight and threatening to break everybody's skulls, the only thing any of us could think about was whether we'd ever be able to draw breath again. So, we had a terrific summer, and all because of idiot jokes, which, though I would never tell them in public except under the influence of sodium pentothal, still do a better job of cheering me up than any major religion."

"Elementary school jokes are the best." Mark chuckled, as they reached a grove of evergreens. They glanced around at the trees they could see from the path and saw nothing resembling their Christmas tree.

"I'll look on the left, while you search on the right." Already walking off the trail in the direction he had assigned himself, Mark called over his shoulder, "Don't stray out of sight of the trail, and shout if you need any help, okay?"

"Magic, I've been in the woods before." Rob snorted, and Mark could hear in his voice the attendant eye roll.

Acting as if he could not, Mark combed through his side of the evergreen grove, alert for any sign of their lost, fake Christmas tree. Finding none after a solid five minutes of investigating his part of the grove, he trudged back to the path. On the trail, he waited for only a moment before Rob emerged from a cluster of snow-encrusted evergreen branches.

"No luck." Before Mark could ask, Rob shook his head as he fell into step beside Mark.

"Drat." Scowling, Mark bent, scooped up a fistful of snow, molded it into a ball, and hurled the missile at the trail marker on a tree ten feet ahead.

"Bull's eye." Appreciatively, Rob hooted and nudged Mark in the ribs. "That's why we call you Magic. You turn drats into bull's eyes."

"Just think." Mark's scowl softened into a grin. "If we had been at a carnival, I would have won a prize."

"A carnival." Rob pronounced the second word in the derisive tone one might use when describing a termite infestation. "Only a person from Wisconsin would think a carnival is fun."

"You seem to know so much about Wisconsin." Mark arched an eyebrow as they followed a trail marker directing them toward the right. "Why don't you share two Wisconsin facts with me if you're such an expert on the state?"

"Easy." Rob gave a smug laugh. "Wisconsin is famous for its cheese, and the fact that Laura Ingalls lived in a little house in a big woods there before her family dragged her in a covered wagon to a little house on the prairie."

"Ah, yes, the depths of your knowledge drown me." Mark's lips quirked. "For your information, carnivals are great places to impress your girlfriend. If you have a decent aim, you can win her all these stuffed animals at the game booths."

"If your girlfriend is impressed by stuffed animals, then she's about twelve, and you shouldn't be trying to get up her skirt," scoffed Rob.

"One day a passing pickup truck will stop to pull your mind out of the gutter." Mark emitted a long-suffering sigh, and then added, "If you aren't a fan of the game booths, you can always take your girlfriend for a ride on the Ferris Wheel."

"The Ferris Wheel—the slow circle ride!" exclaimed Rob with mock delight. "What could we do for an encore? Oh, I know, I could take my girlfriend for a ride on an elevator. Maybe, if she gets really scared and I play my gentlemanly cards right, she might even hold my hand."

"You know what your problem in life is, Robbie?" Mark demanded rhetorically. "It's that you are sarcastic about everything."

"Sarcasm is the only way I could survive the onslaught of the rest of the world's stupidity," Rob riposted, as they arrived at another grove of evergreens. "I'll go on the right, and you take the left again. See you in a few minutes."

Mark strode off the trail into the left side of the grove. After examining the area thoroughly, he concluded that there was no evidence of their missing Christmas tree, and, stifling his disappointment and frustration, he returned to the path, where Rob was already waiting for him.

"Looks like you were about as successful as peace talks in the Middle East," observed Rob dryly, jerking his chin at Mark's empty hands.

"I might have been even less successful. At least the Middle Eastern governments will occasionally write treaties that have the longevity of a snowball in July, but I didn't even find anything remotely relevant to our investigation." Mark punched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself sternly to focus on the next step to success rather than his annoyance that his last one had ended in failure. "Let's keep moving. The sun is almost down, and it's not a wise idea to be caught out after dark with no supplies in the winter on an unfamiliar trail."

"We have some supplies. I was smart enough to bring my licorice." Rob munched on one and proffered another candy to Mark, who accepted it with a nod of thanks. "Licorice beats trail mix every day of the year."

"I never met anyone as obsessed with licorice as you," Mark said, biting into the stick of candy and not caring if it made him lose his appetite for dinner. Everybody had to be irresponsible and spontaneous every once in awhile.

"I'm an obsessive person," answered Rob without a flicker of shame. "It's part of what makes me so stubborn, and, excuse me, but aren't you going the wrong way?"

"What do you mean?" Frowning, Mark froze in the middle of plunging straight ahead down what he was sure was the trail.

"There's a sign on this tree." Rob pointed at what appeared, in Mark's opinion, to be a scuff on the bark rather than a trail marker. "It's telling us to turn left."

"That isn't a sign." Mark shook his head. "It's just a scuff on the bark, Mac."

"It's a sign," insisted Rob testily, folding his arms across his chest.

"It's just a scuff on the bark," Mark repeated. "Come on, Robbie. I don't want to spend the night here arguing with you about the obvious."

"Then don't try to convince me that the sign staring me in the face is just a scuff on the bark," hissed Rob, jaw clenching in an obstinate manner that made it plain he would not budge from his position until Mark agreed to travel left instead of straight. He probably wouldn't even care if they missed tomorrow's game arguing in the woods, and Herb hanged them both from the nearest tree for skipping a game to go hiking. "What, Magic? Are you really so arrogant as to believe that you're the only one on the team who can navigate a trail?"

"Rob." Mark couldn't contain an exasperated eye roll. He just couldn't. "Let's not get carried away here. You _know _I don't think that."

"Don't roll your eyes at me," snarled Rob, hands flying to his hips, and Mark barely managed to squelch an eye roll over Rob's hypocritical indignation of a teaspoon taste of his own medicine. "That's my rude trademark. You'll have to invent your own disrespectful gesture, so stop being a vile copycat."

Opening his mouth to snap back that humans had been rolling their eyes as an expression of scorn for centuries before Rob was conceived, Mark recognized that this spat was the definition of juvenile he would see if he looked the word up in the dictionary. With a deep breath, he throttled back his pride and temper, then said as levelly as he could, "Perhaps it is a sign, and I'm mistaken. Let's try going left."

Rob, Mark walking in his wake, stalked to the left, grumbling, "You know, the way you do that takes all the fun out of being right."

"The way I do what?" Mark's forehead knitted in a tapestry of bewilderment.

"Give in." Rob glowered as they approached the end of the woods, nearing one of Lake Placid's streets. "It's like even though I'm right and you're wrong, somehow you're just humoring me. Serenity is all very well, but in someone our age, it's sort of creepy."

"What do you want from me?" Exasperated, Mark threw his palms in the air.

"Argue! Fight!" Rob flapped his own hands around like a frazzled bird's wings. "Don't do this…this _pretend _calm routine. Can't you just be argumentative for once?"

Mark's mouth tilted into a slight smile. "No," he said, as they stepped onto a street in front of a Chinese restaurant.

With a miffed noise, Rob jerked his chin toward the Chinese restaurant and muttered, "Let's grab a bite to eat. I'm famished after our hike."

Without a protest, Mark followed Rob into the restaurant, which was vaguely Asian in décor and filled with the scent of oriental sauces. His mouth watering, Mark nearly missed Rizzo, his arms circling like a windmill, shouting from a wraparound corner booth, "Mark! Robbie! Over here! Come join the party! The more the merrier!"

Crossing over to Rizzo's table with Rob beside him, Mark saw that Rizzo was clustered with OC and Silky around steaming platters of mu shi chicken and pork lo mein.

"We don't want to intrude," Mark replied.

"Or mooch off your food," added Rob.

"Nonsense!" Rizzo exclaimed, waving a chopstick impatiently. "It's not intruding if you're invited, and I'm practically begging you two to steal our food, because these plates are so huge. When the waiter said they were meant to feed a whole family, I didn't realize he meant Jimmy's family."

"If Jimmy's family wants to take a car ride together, they have to hire a limo," quipped OC as Rob squeezed into the booth beside him and Mark wedged himself in next to Silky. "Oh, and if his family wants to have dinner together, they have to rent a banquet hall."

"Can we not talk about Jimmy?"" Silky glared at OC. "I thought we were lamenting my problems."

"What's wrong, Silky?" Rob, rolling a helping of mu shi chicken into a pancake, wanted to know. "Is it anything licorice can fix?"

"Not unless it's the licorice that makes you skate so fast, in which case I wouldn't want to know what you laced them with, and neither would Herb." Silky fiddled with his lo mein. "My problem, Rob, is that I'm too slow. That's all Herb said to me at practice again today."

"Don't worry about it," Rob reassured him through bites of mu shi chicken pancake. "Herb wouldn't know what to say to us if he couldn't demean his players all the time. That's just who he is, and it's the main reason why, if he was ever unfortunate enough to end up on a lifeboat, the other passengers would chuck him overboard within the hour even if they had plenty of food and water, because they couldn't stand being told one more time that they were never going to reach the shore on talent alone."

"Simple for you to say." All petulance, Silky speared his lo mein with his chopstick. "You're fast. Herb loves fast. That's why you're on the first line with Magic here."

"Listen, Silky." His face serious, Rob leaned forward in the booth so far that his shirt almost landed in the platter of mu shi chicken. "Speed is overrated. I make mistakes like everyone else, and when I do, it's worse because it's faster, so there's no way to stop the train wreck. When you skate so quickly, you can easily take yourself out of play by accident and stuff. Being fast by itself is analogous to being the first done with an exam but getting half the answers incorrect. In other words, it's not much to brag about."

"You're doing great, Silky," put in Mark, remembering how Dad always had a specific praise for every player and testing that technique for himself. "That goal you scored off the boards today was a beauty. You keep getting goals like that in games, and we're going to win this tournament."

"The MVP has spoken, Silky. All must hear and obey." OC flipped his chopsticks around his fingers with dexterity and offered Mark his patented, cocky quarter moon grin. "What do you think, Magic? Should I give it all up and become a drummer?"

"You'd hate it," Mark responded between nibbles of lo mein. "You'd have to dye your hair a wacky color, get a weird tattoo, and get a nipple ring or something."

"Ladies love nipple rings." OC tapped his chopsticks on the table emphatically to highlight the importance of this statement. "Gives them something to play around with in bed."

"Getting a nipple ring is probably automatic grounds for BU to revoke your degree, OC." Rizzo chortled.

"Doesn't matter." Indifferently, OC shrugged. "That wouldn't prevent me from having a literally smashing career as a drummer."

"Exactly," agreed Rob in a sage voice. "You don't need a degree to compose a poem entirely out of curse words, Rizzo. I'll bet the average drummer doesn't even know what a college is, nonetheless how to attend one."

"That's it!" Dramatically, Rizzo raised his palms in the air. "Tomorrow I'm resigning as captain of this team and taking up a career with a little less stress like commando in the Marine Corps. You guys are all insane."


	10. Chapter 10

Virtue and Vice

"You know what?" Steve Christoff asked the table—or, technically, tables, since the team, celebrating their third victory of the tournament, which would bring them to the final and gold medal game, had jammed together three tables in order to eat together—at large. They were all gathered at the pizzeria in the town square, devouring pies of pepperoni pizza and guzzling glasses of soda.

In fact, it was kind of like being a Pee Wee again, Mark thought, going out for pizza after a win, except the pizza was better. People weren't exaggerating when they claimed New York pizza was the best; the sauce was perfect and offset by just the right ratio of cheese and crust. He was probably going to gain fifty pounds in fat by the end of the week and not even be sorry about the damage inflicted on his arteries.

"We're doing much better in the tournament than I thought we would," Steve plowed on through bites of pizza without giving anyone a chance to respond to his apparently rhetorical question.

"Yeah." Bill Baker leaned forward to help himself to another slice of pizza. Sprinkling an ample amount of garlic powder all over it, he went on, "We've beaten the Swedes, the Canadians, and the Czechs. That's pretty impressive, isn't it?"

"I'll say." Phil Verchota grinned, a droplet of grease falling from his folded piece of pizza onto his paper plate as he transported the slice to his mouth. "The Czechs are favorites for a silver medal—maybe even a gold if they can beat the Soviets who practically have their names carved on the gold medals now—in the Olympics, aren't they?"

"It's not their B team that's a favorite for a silver medal." Rob, spearing with his fork one of the neat squares he had cut his slice of pizza into, rolled his eyes. "We beat their B team, Phil, not the team they'll actually be sending to cream us in the Olympics. There's a difference."

"Could you not be so negative after a win?" Neal piped up, high-pitched and squeaky as ever. "Are you allergic to sunlight or something? Is that why you can never look on the bright side, Mac?"

"Vitamin D deficiency definitely explains why he never sees the glass as half full instead of half empty," put in Dave Christian before Rob could reply, sipping his Coca-Cola.

"The glass isn't half full or half empty." Rob shrugged, poking another square of pizza with his fork. "It's just twice as big as it needs to be, and it's probably going to tip over any second now, but if we're prepared with a stack of napkins, the damage shouldn't be irreparable."

"The optimism in that remark is simply overwhelming," observed OC, all irony, as he chomped into his slice of pizza and came away with a long string of cheese linking his teeth to his piece of pepperoni pizza.

"Watching you eat pizza is as disgusting as seeing a wolf rip apart a sheep." Rob wrinkled his nose and continued in his loftiest tone, "Anyway, I strive for realistic more than optimistic. Look, guys, I'm not saying that we've done poorly this tournament. We haven't. In fact, we've performed much better than we thought we could, but just because we're not as terrible as we feared before this tournament, that doesn't mean we're good enough to be any more than a ludicrously long shot at a bronze medal. Face it, in the Olympic Games, we're—if we play our cards right—no more than dark horse contenders for the bronze."

"What do you think, Buzz?" Eric Strobel wanted to know, pouring peppercorn all over his fourth slice of pizza. "Are we no more than dark horse contenders for the bronze?"

"I don't know about the dark horse bit." Tipping his chair away from the table luxuriously, Buzz gave his warmest smile. "I do know that we're contenders for the bronze at least. In '76, our team would have taken the bronze if we hadn't lost to the West Germans, so that's being a contender for the bronze, isn't it? I don't see why this team can't do just as well, since, if anything, we've got more depth than the '76 team. I mean, we've got Magic on our side now. If that isn't depth, what is?"

Here, Mark took an intense interest in dabbing a non-existent splotch of tomato sauce off his lips with a napkin. Sometimes he did wonder what might have happened if he had been in the 1976 Olympics, but he usually silenced such ruminations by telling himself, as only a senior in high school, he would not truly have been ready to handle the pressure of an Olympics. After all, even four years later, it still remained to be seen whether he was mentally tough enough to perform at his best—as his teammates depended on him to—in the Olympics.

Figuring that, since he had been dragged into this conversation, he might as well contribute to it, Mark commented, "Nobody really expects much from us, because we're an unknown quantity, but the advantage of being an unknown is that people won't realize how good you are until you've shown it to them by beating them. We're also a strong third period team, and I'd take that over being a first period powerhouse any day of the month."

"Me too," agreed Rizzo, beaming. "In baseball, if I have a choice, I always take last licks, and being a strong third period team is like having last licks."

"I'm feeling rather licked myself after today's game." Abruptly, Rob rose, pushing his chair away from the table. Slipping a bill from his wallet into the center of the table to cover his share of the check, he added, "I'm going to head back to the hotel. See you around."

"Come on, Robbie!" Rizzo protested heartily. "Stick around awhile longer. The pizza and conversation will get you energized in no time, I promise."

"No, thank you." Rob shook his head and turned to leave only to be halted by Rizzo laying a stilling hand on his elbow. "I'm not in the mood for any more pizza or conversation."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mac!" exclaimed Rizzo, who could probably not fathom a time when he would ever have enough socializing or crave some solitude. Mark might get excited at the prospect of an occasional evening spent alone, but the very notion would probably just depress Rizzo immensely. "You can never have enough pizza or conversation. Stay here, and you won't regret it. You'll have a much better time here with us than you ever could by yourself. Life is too short to be anti-social."

"I'm an educated and articulate adult, Rizzo." Treating the BU boy to his iciest glare, Rob yanked his elbow out of Rizzo's grasp. "By now, I know perfectly well what I like or don't like, and what I want or don't want. I'd thank you not to condescend to me by trying to make those determinations for me."

"Okay. Do whatever makes you happy. Whatever you want. Have a party by yourself if that's your definition of fun." Rizzo lifted his palms in surrender."See you at practice tomorrow."

As Rob departed the pizzeria in a gust of wintry air, Silky waved his slice of pizza around emphatically and remarked, "Everyone always says I'm too tightly wound, but he really needs a chill pill slipped into his cereal every morning instead of all that hot sauce."

"He's mellowed with age," pointed out Eric fairly. "Compared to how he was freshman year at the U, he's absolutely easygoing now."

Knowing that, once again, it was his responsibility to calm Rob out of whatever temper he had gotten himself into, Mark removed some money from his wallet to cover his portion of the pizza, slid it onto Rob's bill so that it made a pile, and stood up, explaining, "I'd better babysit Robbie, and make sure that he doesn't get himself into too much trouble. Enjoy yourselves."

Waving in acknowledgment of the farewells called out by his teammates, Mark left the pizzeria and caught up with Rob, who was halfway across the square.

"You didn't have to go with me," Rob said as Mark joined him.

"I know." Mark nodded, and then arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "What was that about?"

"I can't get my hopes up for a medal, Magic." Rob rubbed his gloves together fervently. "I could fight for one if I had to, but I couldn't get my hopes up for one, because what would it do to me if I dared to dream of getting one, and that dream didn't come true?"

"It would just inspire you to fight harder in whatever your next competition was, so maybe, like all cynics, you should stop being an optimist afraid of yourself." Mark clapped his roommate on the shoulder, and then found his gaze drawn to the sleigh and reindeer in the middle of the square. "Our clue in the locker room today was 'sleigh ride.'"

"Yeah, the word puzzles are getting lamer by the day." Rob's sharp brown eyes fixed on the sled as well. "Do you reckon we should check out Santa's sleigh while it's parked here in the middle of Lake Placid?"

"It might be a good place to search for our tree," answered Mark, grateful that the sled wasn't crawling with overjoyed children today. "We are a bit old for climbing up into Santa's sleigh, though, aren't we?"

"You can say that again with more conviction," Rob muttered. "If anyone from my hometown heard about me getting on Santa's sleigh, I'd be strung out to die on the grapevine. I'd probably never be able to show my face in town again without being laughed out of the place, especially around the holiday season, because that would just remind everyone of my shameful sleigh misadventure. That means you'll have to be the one to investigate the sled, Mark."

"I'm older than you, and I act more maturely than you do." Mark shook his head. "If one of us is going on the sleigh, it's you, Rob, because not only are you younger, but you act it."

"That doesn't matter," Rob countered, chin lifting. "What makes a difference is how old you _look. _You look younger than me. Most of the time, you appear to be about thirteen, but I bet if you put in a solid effort, you could pass for a ten-year-old going through an awkward growth spurt. It is definitely at least marginally socially acceptable for a ten-year-old to explore Santa's sleigh."

"I'll do it for our Christmas tree," Mark conceded after a moment's careful consideration. "Not for you, and if you ever mention this to anyone, I'll ferret out your most embarrassing secret and hijack a radio station to broadcast it on."

"That's a wonderful display of ten-year-old feistiness. So glad you're getting into character so well." His expression almost radiant with amusement, Rob snatched a scarlet Santa hat with faux fur at the bottom from the side of the sled and dumped it unceremoniously on Mark's head. "Now you're properly in costume, too. Get up on that sleigh and awe us all with your performance of a gleeful child pretending to be Santa. I'll be over on a bench pretending I've never met you if you need me."

With a jaunty wave, Rob drifted off to sit on a bench on the far end of the square, folding his legs and staring down the street away from the sled of Mark's imminent humiliation.

Deciding that there was no profit in waiting to make a fool of himself, Mark took a bracing, deep breath, and, doing his best approximation of an eager ten-year-old, clambered into the sleigh. Trying to act as if he simply could not contain his youthful excitement at being in what must be Santa's sled, he stretched over the seat and rummaged through the stack of presents—really, by the weight of them, nothing more than wrapped and empty cardboard boxes—but discovered no Christmas tree.

Feeling as if every eye of each person passing through the square with arms heavy with shopping bags was fixated on him, Mark tore off the Santa hat, wedged it on the side of the sleigh, and hopped out of the sled. His cheeks flaming like bonfires, he hurried over to collapse on the bench beside Rob, murmuring, "That sleigh just took me on another journey to a dead end."

"Don't worry, Magic." Rob's teeth flashed in a smile. "I have an idea where to go next."

"Oh, really?" Mark's forehead knotted as Rob hauled him upright. "Where?"

"There's a self-storage place just down the road." As he spoke, Rob tugged Mark down the sidewalk.

"What does that have to do with a sled, a manger, or evergreen branches?" Mark frowned.

"May I do the thinking please?" scoffed Rob. Without waiting for a response, he continued acerbically, "You can't see the forest for the trees, Mark. It doesn't make sense to just focus on the clues when they aren't coming together in a way that makes sense. Either Rizzo and Silky are moving the tree around every day, or else they're storing it in one place that has absolutely nothing to do with the clues. If the latter is the case, they could easily have rented some self-storage space to hide the tree in."

"Even assuming your theory is correct, how does that help us?" Mark pointed out, not entirely swayed by his friend's logic. "We don't know the number of the space they might have rented, nor do we have the key for the lock. I hate to be the voice of reason who rains on your parade, but the front desk won't provide us with that information, either. They'll just give us a lecture about client confidentiality."

"I won't be able to find out what space they rented or persuade the front desk to give us a copy of the key, but I will be able to charm the clerk into telling us whether Rizzo and Silky rented a space here. That will let us know whether we really need to go on these wild goose chases for our tree." Rob gave a smug smirk. "You just have to be nice to people, Magic, and confidentiality quickly becomes much less of a barrier."

"Are you implying I'm not nice?" Mark nudged Rob in the ribs. "If you are, I have to remind you that only yesterday you were extolling the benefits of threats of violence in drawing important information out of people."

"What a gross misrepresentation of my statement." Rob gasped with exaggerated indignation. "Obviously I was referring to the benefit of torture in interrogating one's enemies, but I wasn't discussing how to question innocent bystanders. It goes without saying that innocent bystanders must be treated with the utmost respect and sensitivity."

Before Mark could answer this assertion, they had reached the self-storage facility, which Rob sauntered into, Mark trailing at his heels.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." The woman behind the desk, who had been recording data in a register, glanced up from her work to greet them with a grin. She was a middle-aged lady who bore an uncanny resemblance to a marshmallow: plump, soft, and powdered. "May I be of assistance?"

"I hope so." Bestowing on the clerk the broadest beam that he seemed to reserve just for strangers, Rob stepped up to the counter with Mark beside him. "My friend and I came here as part of the Olympic hockey team for the tournament, and we got to thinking that we had some belongings we could leave here until February instead of dragging all over the country with us."

"Customers find our premises very spacious and secure," the woman behind the desk assured them. "Our prices are very reasonable. Whatever your storage needs are, I'm confident we'll be able to meet them."

"Me too." Rob's eyes expanded earnestly. "One of my friends came here, and he was really impressed with his experience, going on about how it was the best self-storage place he'd ever been in until he was practically blue in the face. That's what made me choose to come here for my self-storage needs. Advertisements can lie, because only during election season when opponents are lampooning each other in the media is there any truth in advertizing, but I can trust a friend to be honest and concerned about my needs when he makes a recommendation."

"I think we did have one of your teammates in here a few days ago." The lady chuckled. "He was a very talkative young man, but he only wanted to rent the space for a week to put his Christmas tree in. I thought that a little odd, of course, because who wants to lock up a Christmas tree during the holiday season? That's normally the time other customers drop in to take their holiday decorations out of storage, you know. Then again, I'm not a journalist trained to ask the tough questions. I'm just a clerk who knows it's my job to make the customer happy because the customer is always right."

"Our teammate is a bit weird." As Rob threw back his head and laughed as if this were simply the funniest joke in history, Mark saw a distinctly triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Sometimes he even eats fettuccine for breakfast, if you'll believe it, and we know it's fettuccine, ma'am, because he's always ready to spend an hour explaining to us the difference between spaghetti and fettuccine."

"How informative," murmured the woman dryly.

"Yep." Rob grabbed two brochures from a mound on the counter and rifled through them with a rustling of glossy pages. "Speaking of information, do these pamphlets tell us all about the different spaces offered here?"

"Oh, yes." The lady bobbed her head in affirmation. "You'll find information on all our excellent deals in there."

"Splendid." Rob nodded and began to drift away from the desk. "My friend and I will just look through these brochures tonight and return tomorrow once we know what kind of space best suits our needs. Thank you for your time. You've been extremely helpful."

As he and Mark made their way toward the exit, Rob gestured at one of the offers in the brochure and asked for the benefit of the woman behind the counter, "Mark, do you think that the standard package would have enough square footage for us?"

"I don't know." Mark scratched his forehead as they reached the door, which Rob pulled open for him. "Would there be enough room for our television? That's a deal breaker. We'll have to measure the television to see if we'll need the deluxe package."

As soon as the door had shut behind them with a tinkle of a silver bell, Rob observed in a highly satisfied fashion, "That was a productive stop. Now we know that Rizzo and Silky rented a space to store our stolen Christmas tree."

"We have no proof it was Rizzo or Silky who took the tree." Mark shook his head as they resumed their path down the sidewalk, heading back to the hotel.

"You're the type of fool I'd use as a blueprint to build an idiot." Peeved, Rob rolled his eyes. "Was your brain taking a leave of absence when that lady told us that a talkative teammate of ours rented a space to store a Christmas tree? Who would the talkative teammate be except Rizzo, genius?"

"Any number of people." Mark sighed. "Mac, you kept up a steady stream of words in that shop, so if that woman was describing you to one of our teammates, she'd probably refer to you as talkative, too. Besides, almost anyone can act talkative even if they're not. I mean, you saw me pull that off when I took Rizzo's key in the locker room."

"Next you'll be trying to convince me that Pav was the talkative teammate the lady spoke of." Rob snorted. "That's the final illogical extension of your absurd premise."

"If I were you, which, fortunately, I'm not, I wouldn't underestimate quiet people, Robbie," warned Mark, blue eyes narrowing. "Pav is a skilled hunter, so I bet he would know how to throw us off his scent in a situation like this."

"As if Pav would exchange two words with a stranger even if they were the last people alive after a nuclear fallout." Rob sniggered "Honestly, the only thing that would have provided more condemning evidence against Rizzo and Silky is if the woman had specifically stated that our talkative teammate was accompanied by a slow one."

"Silky isn't as stupid as everyone says. He attended BU." Mark shook his head in admonishment. "That's not a school for intellectual slouches."

"I didn't say Silky was dumb." Rob tilted his nose in the air haughtily. "I just said he was slow. That means that he arrives at the correct answer but about an hour after someone quick as lightning like me."

"Your modesty is striking, that's for certain." Mark's mouth quirked upward wryly, as they reached the hotel and entered the heated sanctuary of the lobby.

"I know. It's one of my nine thousand most admirable attributes, but enough about me." Rob waved a dismissive hand while they threaded their way through the plush furniture to the elevator bank. "What did you think of the lady in the shop? Was she a looker?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Mark teased, pushing the down arrow when they came to the elevator bank at the end of the lobby. "You were the one chatting her up, not me. I was just standing back, listening to you love birds singing your sweet mating songs."

"Your lips are just begging my fists to make them twice as thick as they are now," grumbled Rob, as the elevator arrived with a ding. They waited as a knot of beleaguered-looking and besuited businessmen exited, striding briskly toward a conference room off the lobby, and then boarded. As he pressed the button for their floor and the doors clanged behind them, Rob added, "I thought she was fatter than the Pillsbury Doughboy. If she sat in a car, she would probably crush it faster than a Dixie cup in a trash compactor."

"Now, that's just rude." Mark shot his roommate a mildly reproving glance, as the elevator hurtled them toward their level. "She can't control her appearance, so she doesn't need to be mocked mercilessly for it."

"People can control their weights." Defiantly, Rob's lips thinned. "Mark, people only end up with more blubber than a killer whale if they are lazy and never exercise."

"Her job isn't to be an athlete or a model." Mark shrugged, torn between amusement and aggravation at his sophisticated friend's surprising shallowness, as the elevator reached their floor with a heralding ding. "She doesn't need to be judged by her fitness or her beauty."

"Why so defensive?" taunted Rob, as they walked down the hallway to their room. "Does she remind you of someone you love? Lovely Leslie, perhaps?"

Mark, about to pull his key out of his pocket to unlock their door, froze. He felt something inside of him finally snap. He had at last had enough of ignoring Rob's overt and subtle gibes at his fiancée. The time for being patient was over; the moment for setting boundaries had arrived with a bang.

"That—" Whirling around to glower at Rob, Mark paused between every word to give it due emphasis—"is what gets you into trouble every single time. That snide mouth you stubbornly refuse to keep shut."

"I don't know what you mean." Shaping his eyebrows into question marks, Rob twisted around Mark, unlocked their door, and sauntered inside. "You'll have to explain again without the dramatic pauses."

"Fine." With a satisfyingly firm noise, Mark closed the door behind him as he joined Rob in their room. "What I mean is simple, but I'll humor you by clarifying the obvious. I respect you and your fiancée by not taking cracks at her all the time, so I expect you to treat Leslie and me with the same courtesy."

"Mark, if you were any more serious, you'd be at perpetual risk of apoplexy," snapped Rob, plainly affronted. "It was a joke, you moron."

"You see, Mac, the funny and little known thing about jokes is that people are supposed to laugh at them." Mark folded his arms across his chest. "If you're the only person who thinks what you said is a real knee-slapper, and it was calculated to offend your audience as much as possible, it's not called telling a joke. It's called being a jerk. I'd appreciate it if you stopped being a jerk.'

"Don't blame me because you're too dumb to appreciate a good joke when you're told one," Rob volleyed back.

"I've said my piece." His jaw tightening, Mark decided that it was time to use a quiet person's ultimate weapon: the silent treatment. Most people found talking to a resolutely unresponsive person about as pleasant and natural as making love to a cold corpse, so it typically wasn't very long before the being on the receiving end of the silent treatment capitulated to whatever Mark's conditions were. He doubted that Rob would be the exception to this rule. Rob was undoubtedly determined as rust, but he engaged in more battles than Mark, so he had less willpower to devote to each fight. Likewise, while Rob valued quiet time every evening for his reading and planning, he also liked being able to look up and strike up a conversation in the midst of these pursuits. The realization that he couldn't do that would probably drive him crazy swifter than solitary confinement would a prisoner. "You can be silent and wrong, or you can be right and apologize, but I won't be speaking to you again until you do the right thing and apologize."

"I'm your line mate," sputtered Rob. "You can't refuse to talk to me in practice tomorrow."

Doubting very much that Rob would be able to hold out that long, Mark merely crossed the room, scooped his copy of _A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _off the desk, and reclined against his pillows to read, opening to the page he had bent down to save his place.

"The silent treatment is for five-year-olds." Nothing if not persistent, Rob tried again to goad Mark into a retort. "You're being such an immature roommate, you know, Mark. I mean, if you've got a problem, we can discuss it like grown-ups, but we can't do that if you refuse to use words like a big boy."

Mentally noting the irony that Rob suddenly wanted to have a mature discussion when he had been all obstinate insolence a moment ago, Mark flipped a page and continued with his reading.

Exhaling with the gale force of a northeaster, Rob walked over to the desk and sank into its seat. Engrossed in his book, Mark could hear the faint sounds of his roommate's pen dancing across paper.

"Magic." Rob's voice broke through the strokes of his pen and the crinkle of Mark turning a page less than five minutes later. "After today's game, you're still the lead scorer by over fifteen points."

Clearly, Rob had been keeping himself busy by updating the log he recorded in his planner of every team member's points, games played, and penalty minutes. Mark supposed that Rob's comment was intended to constitute an indirect apology, and it would have sufficed if Rob had insulted Mark's playing prowess rather than Leslie. Leslie deserved a direct and sincere apology, so Mark let his stony silence speak for him.

"All right." In a blaze of anger, Rob hurled his pen down on the desk. "I'm sorry. Now will you stop acting like you've got a stick shoved up your butt and start talking to me again?"

"That didn't sound very sincere, Rob." Mark studied his roommate sternly over the spine of his novel.

"You didn't ask for a sincere apology." Rob's fingers clenched around the desk chair. "Just for an apology. I gave you one."

"The fact that you would try to make such an inane argument alerts me to your need for more quiet reflection. I'm going to be a generous roommate and provide you with that solitude. Let me know when you're ready to offer an honest apology." With that, Mark buried his nose in his book again.

"I feel like a child with my nose in the corner for timeout," muttered Rob bitterly. "You're so unfair, Mark. You basically moved the goalposts after my shot had sailed into the net, and now you're trying to pretend I didn't score."

When Mark, focused on reading, ignored this, frantic pen scratches echoed from the desk for a couple of minutes. Then Rob said softly, "Listen, Magic. I'm not giving up, and I'm not giving in, since that's not my style, but I've had some time to think, so I'm changing my mind. I'm really sorry for what I said about Leslie. I haven't met her, but I'm sure if you love her, she's a beautiful person on the inside and outside. Oh, and I also would probably punch someone in the face if they insulted my fiancée like I did Leslie, so that's really another reason why I shouldn't have made gibes about her. Anyway, I can't promise that I won't say anything else horrible about your fiancée, because I'm a bit of a jerk, especially to my friends, but I will try to restrain myself in the future, and I hope you can forgive me for being a jerk."

"That's all I needed to hear." Smiling slightly, Mark laid down his book, not caring that splaying it on the bed would damage its spine. "Of course I forgive you, because everyone needs at least one jerk friend. Now, was that apology really so difficult to say?"

"Yes." Ruefully, Rob grinned. "You may not have noticed amid all my virtues, but I'm a bit stubborn. It's not my fault. It's just the McClanahan curse."

"The McClanahan curse?" repeated Mark, sensing that a humorous revelation would be forthcoming from his roommate.

"Yep." Rob nodded. "When Dad was younger, he was smart-mouthed and strong-willed, so his dad yelled at him all the time that he would end up with a child as headstrong as him and serve him right. Well, Dad dodged that bullet with his first two sons, but then he had me, and stubborn should have been my middle name. I got told a fair number of times growing up that I deserved to have a child as stubborn as me, but I know how to avert that catastrophe."

"How?" Mark asked, snickering.

"I'm just going with the virtue name route," explained Rob with the air of a NASA scientist describing astrophysics. "When I insisted that our family call our dog Sassy and she wound up being a total dope, I learned the hard way that if you name a person or animal after a virtue, that person or animal, following the inexorable dictums of Murphy's Law, will inevitably fail to display that virtue. It follows logically, then, that if I name all my children some variation of the word stubborn, the children will all be mild-mannered angels delighted to obey every order."

"Sassy and Stubborn." Mark shook his head. "The shortcoming with your virtue names, Mac, seems to be that you don't know what traits are actually virtues."

"One man's virtue is another man's vice, and a virtue taken too far becomes a vice," Rob observed sagely. Then, after a brief pause, went on more crisply, "Anyway, while you weren't talking to me, I was thinking about how we could convince Silky and Rizzo to return our tree to us. I've written on each of the brochures from the self-storage place that we want our tree back now. I think that we can slip the pamphlets into Rizzo's and Silky's lockers tomorrow. That should persuade them to take us seriously, especially if we tape the bottom of their skates before practice."

Mark sniggered. Wrapping the bottom of a skate with transparent tape caused a teammate to basically do a faceplant the moment they came onto the ice. For that reason, it was a classic locker room prank.

"Nothing says serious like a practical joke," agreed Mark, chuckling.

"You're not going to protest that we don't have proof that Rizzo and Silky are guilty?" Rob gaped at him.

"Nah. Their reaction to the brochures will tell us whether they're innocent or guilty." Mark's chuckle blossomed into a laugh. "I figure a harmless prank never hurt anyone, either. I'm sure Rizzo and Silky would agree if they are the ones who stole our tree."


	11. Chapter 11

The Worst Insult

The hotel's alarm clock rang through the room like a siren for an air raid drill. Mumbling incoherently under his breath, Mark opened his eyes blearily, feeling as if some trickster had replaced the lids with concrete overnight. With a massive yawn he was surprised he had the energy for, he wiped the sleep out of his eyes and tried to bully himself into pushing off his covers and turning off that infernal alarm clock.

In the opposite bed, Rob, too, was stirring. From a tangle of blankets, Rob's hand stretched out toward the nightstand and fumbled around until it found the alarm clock's off button.

"Shit," Rob muttered into the echoing silence that followed the alarm clock being switched off. He used this profanity every morning when he glanced at the clock and wished to register his discontent that it was still continuing to run when he wanted nothing more than to roll over and drift back to dreamland. Mark understood the sentiment, though he wouldn't have employed the same language. "It's four-thirty already."

"It's breakfast time, then." Mark forced himself to leave his warm bed and pour himself a bowl of Cheerios and a glass of orange juice from their limited food selections. As he took his first bites of cereal, he told himself to strive for upbeat and cheerful this morning, although, at this obnoxiously early hour, he would probably end up settling for not being a complete grouch.

"I'm not sure I can eat," grumbled Rob, emerging from his bed with obvious reluctance. "My stomach isn't awake yet."

"In an hour and a half it will be," Mark pointed out, emphasizing this with a wave of his spoon. "If you don't eat, you'll get all faint on me halfway through practice, and do you want our teammates talking about how our line has no staying power?"

"Of course not." Motivated, as Mark knew he would be, by this threat of people gossiping about his lack of strength and skill, Rob poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and a cup of juice with far more vigor than he had displayed doing anything else since the alarm clock had rudely awakened both of them. "We can't go losing our place on top of the dung heap now. I just hate getting up this early, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Nodding emphatically, Mark sipped his juice. "Only a vampire wouldn't mind being up at this time."

"You read too many horror books." Rob rolled his eyes. In his opinion, reading any horror book that wasn't as classic as _Dracula _was a waste of time and brainpower. "Anyway, you know what this country needs instead of Daylight Savings Time which nobody really understands?"

"It's for the farmers," explained Mark, unable to provide any more specifics as he chewed at his cereal. "We have to keep our farmers happy. We'd starve without them."

"I didn't ask you to explain Daylight Savings Time to me." Rob shook his head. "You didn't answer my question at all, Magic. I asked if you knew what this country needed _instead of _Daylight Savings Time."

"A siesta around lunch like in Italy and Spain," suggested Mark, shrugging. "Why should little children be the only ones who get to nap when they don't appreciate it and actually mope about it a lot?"

"Very continental, but that wasn't what I was thinking." Rob paused to munch on his Cheerios, and then went on dryly, "I was thinking that this country would really benefit from a concept called Weekday Morning Time whereby at four-thirty a.m. every weekday we go into a space-launch-style hold for three hours, during which it just remains four-thirty. This way we could all wake up via a gradual, civilized process of yawning and stretching, and it would still be only four-thirty when we were ready to emerge from our beds, but instead we are stuck with this tyrannical system in which the clock keeps marching on."

"You are the one who decided that we should arrive at practice an hour early so that we would have time to prepare for our pranks," Mark reminded him, grinning.

"Sure, but Herb is the one who scheduled practice at six in the morning," protested Rob, raising his palms defensively and dropping his spoon into his bowl with a clatter. "I mean, of all the twenty-four hours in a day for him to pick from, he chooses six a.m."

"Practice is good for you, McClanahan," Mark rapped out in his best imitation of Herb's bark. "An early morning won't kill you, but I will if you don't stop whining."

"Sleep is good for me, too." Smiling slightly, Rob tossed his empty bowl, cup, and spoon into the trash before heading into the bathroom. "And too many six in the morning practices will be the death of me. The sun isn't even up yet, so why should I be?"

"Let's just try to survive today, then, shall we?" Mark chuckled as he threw out his own used breakfast dishes and pulled out clothes from the dresser.

By the time Mark had finished dressing, Rob had completed his daily manic grooming regimen, so Mark disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth and hair while Rob changed. Less than five minutes later, they were exiting the room with their bulky hockey bags slung over their shoulders, gloves on their hands, hats over their heads, and down jackets on their backs.

"Let's review," said Rob in an undertone as they passed the rooms of their probably still sleeping teammates and arrived at the elevator bank, where Mark pressed the down arrow. "We get into the locker room and change. Probably nobody else will be there yet, so we can see who arrives in what order. If Silky and Rizzo come in before anyone else—"

"They probably were going to write another one of their questionably helpful hints on the blackboard," finished Mark, who had heard Rob reiterate this point at least a dozen times last night. The elevator halted at the floor with a ding. Boarding and pushing the button for the lobby, Mark couldn't resist adding with a wry twist of his lips, "I do remember you mentioning that once or twice a minute last night."

"Sorry." Contrary to his word, Rob sounded distinctly unrepentant, as the elevator plunged toward the lobby. "I'm a bit obsessive. You should realize that by now."

"I do." Mark's eyes widened. "Believe me, I do."

"Wonderful." Rob cracked his left knuckles against his right palm with a noise like nut shells bursting open. "Anyhow, if Silky and Rizzo are the first to arrive, that would be another piece of evidence that they stole our tree, because if they were the ones writing the hints, they were most likely the ones who took our tree, too."

"Oddly enough, I'm still getting déjà vu of last night listening to you," Mark observed, all innocence, as the elevator stopped in the lobby with a loud ding, and they stepped out of it, wending a path through upholstered furniture to the doors that led out to the cold, gray winter dawn.

"Repetition is good for the mind." Rob nudged Mark in the ribs as they headed down the sidewalk toward the rink, the wind off Mirror Lake tearing at their hair and cheeks. "Especially when the mind is as small as yours. To continue, once Rizzo and Silky arrive, one of us will have to divert them, while the other one of us tapes their skates and drops the pamphlets in their lockers."

"When you say one of us has to tape their skates and drop the pamphlets in their lockers, you mean me." Mark shot Rob a keen glance. "Just wanted you to know I noticed."

"It's the beauty of our partnership, Magic." Rob folded his hands together angelically. "I lure the opponents away, and you sneak in to ruin their day. It hasn't failed us yet, has it?"

Mark compressed his lips. "That depends on your point of view, Mac."

"Fine." Rob scowled. "Then you can be the bait this time."

"That makes no sense." Rapidly, Mark shook his head as they entered the arena and made their way down the corridor to the locker room. "We play to our separate strengths. You're the talkative one; I'm the quiet one."

"I knew you'd listen to reason." Rob couldn't restrain a cocky smirk. "You've always been better at evasion than I have. I prefer more straightforward, brash tactics."

"Master of the understatement, you are." Mark chuckled as they walked into the empty locker room.

"No obnoxious notes on the blackboard." Rob pumped his fists in the air by way of celebration. "I could get used to life without the mystery pretty quickly."

"I could get used to all this extra room." Laughing, Mark waved his arms around as he dumped his bag in his stall and began to slip into his equipment. "What are we going to do with all this space, huh, Robbie?"

"Take up sculpting," answered Rob from the stall where he was donning his own equipment.

They had just finished changing when the door swung open, and Silky, still half asleep, stumbled in alongside Rizzo, who appeared as vivacious and ready to chat the ear off a deaf man as ever.

"Hey, guys!" Rizzo exclaimed, his voice almost obscenely loud given the absurdly early hour, and, if he was unhappy to see Rob and Mark in the locker room, he did a stellar job of concealing it. "Ready for practice?"

"They're awake and dressed," remarked Silky snidely before Rob or Mark could respond. "What more can anyone expect before six in the morning?"

Rizzo opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by the appearance of Buzz, Bah, and Pav.

"Good morning, boys!" Rizzo shouted merrily, while Mark decided that he was louder than the hotel alarm clock. More pleasant, but definitely louder.

Buzz and Bah returned the greeting politely before resuming their conversation, and Pav merely nodded before ducking into his stall.

"Rizzo and Silky, come over here." Rob gestured for Rizzo and Silky to join him near his locker. "I want to show you something."

Understanding that this was the beginning of Rob's distraction, Mark pulled the brochures from the self-storage shop out of his bag. Then, checking swiftly over his shoulder that Rizzo and Silky were facing in the opposite direction, watching Rob, who was demonstrating how he could organize a deck of cards by suit and number in less than two minutes, Mark slid one pamphlet onto the top shelf of first Rizzo's and then Silky's locker.

After that, he removed their skates from their bags as unobtrusively as possible, grabbed a roll of transparent tape from his own bag, and sat, his back to the cluster around Rob's locker, in his stall, quickly winding tape around one of Rizzo's blades.

"I bet you two can't organize a deck of cards faster than me." Rob was taunting Silky and Rizzo as Mark finished taping one of Rizzo's skates and began wrap up the other one. "If you can't do it faster than me, you both have to buy me a bag of licorice."

"What if we win?" demanded Silky, as Mark continued to work on Rizzo's second skate blade.

"You won't have to worry about that." Mark could hear Rob's snicker even if he couldn't see it. "You won't be winning anything against me, Silky, but if either of you achieve the impossible and beat me at this, I'll buy you both a beer."

Pav noticed what Mark was doing and arched an eyebrow. Putting on his most innocuous smile, Mark held a finger to his lips in a gesture that meant _tell no one _and hoped that Pav wouldn't break his usual silence to spoil Mark's prank. When Pav, eyes agleam with amusement, plopped down on the bench across from Mark, pulled a roll of clear tape from his pocket, and began taping Silky's skate blades, Mark expelled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Not only was his secret safe, but he was going to receive help from one of the locker room's best practical jokers.

"You don't want beers instead of licorice, Robbie?" asked Rizzo heartily over Silky's mutterings as he tried to organize the card deck faster than Rob.

"Nah, licorice tastes better—most beers taste like what I imagine bat urine would—and sugar high is a more enjoyable state than drunkenness," Rob replied, while Mark finished taping Rizzo's second skate.

Moving as stealthily as possible over to Rizzo's bag, Mark slipped the skates back inside as Silky's fingers somehow fumbled their hold on the deck, sending a cascade of cards to the floor. A stream of expletives burst from Silky's lips as he bent to pick up the now completely out of order cards.

"Geez, Silky." Rob shook his head in reproach as Mark returned to his locker, where Pav, grinning, shoved Silky's newly taped skates into his hands before disappearing to his own stall. "It's not fifty-two card pickup."

"Oh, shut it," snapped Silky, while Mark crossed over to Silky's bag and placed the skates back inside it.

As he made his way back to his stall and sat down, Mark watched Silky shove the gathered deck at Rizzo, grunting, "Do you want to take a crack at giving Rob the beating he deserves?"

"I guess not." Guffawing, Rizzo dumped the deck back into Rob's outstretched palm. "I've never been a great organizer. I'm a very no-structure type of guy. It's why I was awful with punctuation in school."

"Giving up means losing the bet." Rob's tone and eyes were radiant with triumph. "That means two bags of licorice for me. Ha. I won't have to pay for any licorice for the flight back to Minnesota."

"You're a very strange person." Snorting, Silky shook his head. "You're made happy by the weirdest things, and you have no sense of proportion."

"It isn't nice to gloat, either," added Rizzo, wagging a finger in reprimand. "Just because you're more organized than us, Mac, you don't need to rub our noses in it."

"Only sore losers accuse others of gloating." Haughtily, Rob tilted his nose in the air. "Besides, I was celebrating my glorious victory, not your ignominious defeat. There's a difference."

Ten minutes later, the entire team left the locker room to assemble on ice for practice. The instant that their taped blades made contact with the frozen surface, Rizzo and Silky skidded to an abrupt halt, overbalanced, and plummeted onto the ice, barely getting their hands up in time to prevent their faces from hitting first.

"What the heck?" snarled Silky, trying to lift his skates and furrowing his forehead when they refused to budge.

Forming a circle around the fallen Rizzo and Silky, several players stifled laughter or made noises of astonishment.

"There's tape on my blades," Rizzo yelped, yanking off a wad.

An explosion of unfettered laughter from various team members greeted this revelation of a typical locker room prank as the two victims began tugging the tape off their blades in a frenzy.

Rizzo and Silky had just tossed the last of the tape into the garbage can by the locker room when Herb, wearing his usual glower that could make anyone feel as welcome as a dose of cod-liver oil, skated onto the rink with Coach Patrick at his heels.

"Right!" Herb's call to order was as sharp as a shutter banging closed. "Before we begin practice I have an announcement I want to make about colds. Doc has reported an alarming increase in the number of players seeking a non-existent cure for the common cold from him. Are you strong young men or delicate daisies? The common cold is not going to kill any of you. I, on the other hand, might kill you if you keep wasting Doc's precious time with whining requests that he do the impossible and cure your common cold."

Glancing around at his assembled players, Herb seemed to determine that they were significantly subdued by this pronouncement, for he continued tersely, "Now, today's tactical talk is on the subject of positioning. First of all, does anyone _not _know what positioning is?"

When, unsurprisingly, nobody raised a hand to request a definition for this basic vocabulary word, Herb went on tersely, "Excellent. Then we should make some progress today. Some coaches might tell you to skate toward the net when a teammate has the puck behind the opposition goal line or wide and deep on the boards, and to move away from the net when your team has a puck in shooting position. These coaches have boiled cabbage for brains. Don't listen to them or your play will be even more pathetic than it is now."

Here, Herb paused for effect. It was obvious he had memorized this little rant by heart. Suddenly, he snapped back to life again. Illustrating his words on the glass with a black marker, he explained, "Move away from the net when a teammate has the puck behind the opposition goal line or wide and deep on the boards. Move toward the net when your team has a puck in a shooting position. Move out when the puck is inside, and move in when the puck is outside. Up close is where most of the congestion and high-coverage is, so a high slot position will result in more opportunities for clear shots."

At this inopportune moment, Bill Baker, one of the players suffering from a bout of the cold, coughed. Herb scowled at Bill as if he were to blame for a physiological instinct almost as involuntary as blinking, and then barked, "Any questions?"

There was no response. His audience, plainly wondering why he could not have imparted this wisdom upon them when they were awake yesterday, was barely propping its collective eyelids open. A blanket of boredom had settled over the entire team.

Herb's frigid stare traveled over the nodding heads, and his glower intensified to nuclear level. "I take it you're all experts on the subject, are you? You'll know exactly what to do if a situation like this crops up in the game against the Soviets tomorrow, will you?"

"I certainly will." Rob leaned over to whisper this insightful tidbit into Mark's ear. "I'll skate like a bat out of hell in the opposite direction."

"Good. Then perhaps you can answer a few questions." Herb cast around for a victim for a second and then settled on one. "McClanahan!"

_Oh, no,_ Mark thought. _I bet Herb saw Rob whisper to me, and now the chickens will really come back to roost. _

"Yes, Coach?" Rob said, clearly hoping for an easy follow-up question.

"When would this strategy be most helpful in our game against the Soviets tomorrow?" Herb arched an eyebrow.

_Don't start with all the simple questions, Herb,_ Mark observed inwardly, releasing his need for sarcasm.

"When would it be _most_ helpful, Coach?" repeated Rob, who was obviously stalling for time to devise a reasonably coherent reply.

"That's what I said." Herb's lips thinned in disapprobation. "You'll learn a lot more when you finally figure out how to listen, McClanahan."

"Well, Coach, after careful consideration, I'd have to say that this strategy would be most helpful in our game against the Soviets in situations where it will work." Rob's temper had clearly gotten the better of him again with the net result of him deciding that it was better to aim for smart-mouthed than insightful in his answer.

There were several muffled sniggers at Rob's reply, and Mark, sensing that Herb would be as far from happy about this as the east was from the west, winced preemptively, not wanting to imagine the tongue-lashing his left-winger would be receiving in a handful of seconds. As for Rob, Mark could only hope that he was enjoying his remaining time with his head.

"McClanahan thinks he's funny." Eyes narrowing, Herb skewered his audience with an icy glare. "McClanahan won't find it so amusing when the Soviets are skating circles around him and checking him into boards tomorrow. I'll think it's hilarious, though. It's always quality entertainment when an arrogant fool finds out he's not so clever, after all."

Raising his voice, Herb focused on Rob alone. "That's right, McClanahan. See how far a sense of humor takes you against the Soviets tomorrow, because I've yet to see a Soviet lose laughing."

As Herb shouted for Broten's line to take the first drill, and Mark and Rob drifted toward the bench with all the teammates not involved in the opening exercise, Rob mumbled bitterly, "That's odd, Herb, because I've yet to see a face as funny as yours. If it were a building, it would have been knocked down long ago."

"Quit while you're ahead, even though winners never quit." Patting Rob on the back as they settled on the bench, Mark reflexively glanced over his shoulder to ensure that Herb hadn't overheard this mutinous mutter. Rob didn't need his mouth landing him in any more trouble at the moment.

"I'm not ahead." Rob chomped on his lower lip. "I'm humiliated, and for what? Because I didn't come up with the perfect answer to Herb's pop quiz fast enough to suit him. That's crazy. I don't deserve to be yelled at for that."

"Of course you don't," Mark soothed. "If this team had a penny for every time Herb yelled at us when we didn't deserve it, we'd all be millionaires instead of broke amateurs."

"Yeah." Rob sighed. "It's just that I can't help but wonder what it is about me that makes me the instant target of every iron-gutted, bladder-brained, loud-mouthed, crater-faced, vicious, soulless, arrogant jerk in the country."

"Easy answer." Mark smiled slightly. "People who meet all those glowing criteria rip into anyone they can. It's nothing personal."

At this point, their conversation was interrupted by Herb shouting, "Johnson's line!" Along with Eric Strobel, they clambered over the boards for the shift change. They ran through the drill, and Mark thought that their performance had been satisfactory though not spectacular—their passes hadn't been sloppy and they had been able to catch rebounds to try to convert them into more scoring opportunities.

However, Herb apparently felt differently, and this time, it was Eric who bore the brunt of his fury. "Strobel," Herb snarled, studying Eric with an expression that suggested the right-winger was something disagreeable—like used gum—stubbornly clinging to his skate blade. "Move out when the puck is inside the goal line, and move in when the puck is outside. It's not rocket science, and it was the whole point of my talk if you had bothered to listen to a word of it."

"Sorry, Coach." Eric's cheeks were cherries, but his tone was calm and unshaken.

"Don't be sorry. Just do better next time." Herb spun away in disgust and yelled at the bench, "Coneheads, you're up. Let's see if your work is less of a train wreck."

Once the three of them had plopped back onto the bench, Rob pounded Eric reassuringly on back, saying, "You were skating really fast out there, Electric, and you put in a great effort. Just keep putting in a great effort, and don't pay attention to Herb. He desperately needs to switch to decaf."

Grateful that today was one of those days where Rob had determined that praise and encouragement were better ways of motivating Eric than insults and criticisms, Mark chuckled, commenting, "I guess we know that it truly is time for someone to relax if you think they're too intense, Robbie."

"Anyone would find Herb too intense." Rob guzzled water from his bottle. "He's stark, raving mad. If he's not the definition of a lunatic, I don't know who is."

They had barely recuperated themselves with their water break before Herb was calling them out onto the ice for another drill. Again, when the exercise was done, Mark felt his line's performance had been nothing less than fine, but, as usual, Herb found fault. This time, it was Rob whom Herb lanced into, demanding caustically, "You think you're fast, McClanahan?"

"Not fast enough to please you." Rob's jaw tightened. "No, I don't."

"Then accept that the puck moves faster than you'll ever be able to skate, and play accordingly," snapped Herb. "Move the puck up ice with passes to line mates who are open ahead of you. Then skate quickly up to join the rush, but skating the puck up the ice is the slower and less desirable alternative to passing, so don't treat it like the faster and more desirable option. Understand?"

"Yes, Coach." Rob gave a short nod.

"I hope this time you do, because I'm tired of repeating myself." Herb's voice made it clear that he doubted very much that Rob had truly absorbed his correction. Then, turning his attention to the bench, he barked, "Coneheads, your turn!"

When he, Mark, and Eric had settled themselves onto the bench again, Rob said, "Guys, I'm sorry that I didn't pass to you when I should have. I guess my high school puck-hogging tendency has reared its ugly head once more."

"Don't worry about it." Mark tapped Rob's helmet in a gesture he intended to be as affectionate as a hug. "Practice is a place for getting mistakes out of your system before a game."

"Everyone messes up sometimes," put in Eric, clapping Rob on the shoulder. "Even if you make a mistake in a game, it's not that big a deal. It won't be the end of the world. Life will go on, and there will be other hockey games."

"It was still a stupid mistake." Rob massaged his temples. "I shouldn't have made it. I'm not an idiot, so I shouldn't have acted like one."

"You were just doing what felt right to you in the moment." Eric squeezed Rob's shoulder. "That's not making a stupid mistake."

"There are no stupid mistakes on this line," agreed Mark firmly. "Hockey is a fast sport, so we're acting and reacting in split seconds. We don't have the leisure time to consider the consequences before we make every decision on ice, so, obviously, hindsight is going to show that we could have made better choices. The important thing is that we always keep trying to improve. We can learn from our mistakes, but we don't need to beat ourselves up for them, okay?"

"Yep." Rob's grin had a wry edge. "I suppose Herb does enough beating us up for our mistakes that we don't have to add insult to injury by tearing into ourselves."

They had just enough time to refresh themselves with water from their bottles before Herb was hollering at them to come out on the ice for another drill. Perhaps as a consequence of their frustration with their previous performances, their work during this exercise was nothing to phone home about; when they were near the net, they kept trying to dump it in, and when they were away from the net, they were weaving but not accomplishing much of anything.

Finally, Herb seemed to tire of watching them swarm around the net like confused hornets, for he blew his whistle and bellowed at the decibel of a low-flying aircraft, "Some coaches have first lines who invent new ways to score all the time. I have a first line that can't score even when I give them a how-to guide. Boys, in front of the net, it's a bloody—"

"Nose alley," interjected Rob, plainly not in the mood for a typical Herb Brooks admonishment, chin lifting obstinately. "We know that. And we know not to dump the puck in because that went out with short pants. And we know to throw the puck back and weave, weave, weave, but not to weave just for the sake of weaving. And we know everything else you're bursting to tell us right now."

Bracing himself for the explosion from Herb, Mark devoted himself to examining the ice beneath his blades as if he had never seen frozen water before. Not for the first time that morning, he wished that Rob had more control over his tongue. Herb, like any other coach, had certain stock phrases that he relied upon to convey his messages to his players, and Mark understood that they could get wearying after hearing them for years, but sardonically lobbing those expressions like grenades back into the face of an already irate Herb was about as prudent as holding a lit match to a parched patch of grass. The situation was just guaranteed to go up in flames that would burn everyone.

"You may know, but you obviously don't understand," Herb retorted. "If you understood, then you would do, and I could stop repeating myself."

"Maybe if we're not understanding something you could try to explain it in a different way instead of just repeating yourself over and over," countered Rob, and Mark, lifting his eyes from the ice, saw his left-winger folding his arms across his chest in a manner that usually indicated Rob was making his body a fortress for an upcoming war.

"Nothing I'm saying is complicated." Herb's arms were crossed across his chest, and Mark, head swiveling between Rob and their coach, thought that with their folded arms, clenched jaws, and lifted chins, they bore an uncanny resemblance to one another. Of course, he told himself, that shouldn't have been too shocking a realization. After all, he had long suspected that Rob and Herb didn't clash so often and with such fervor because they were irreconcilably different, but rather because they were intolerably similar. Both of them were strong-willed, smart, disposed toward incisive sarcasm, and liable to get irascible when their high expectations were not met. That meant that they argued frequently and heatedly, but Mark also hoped that it meant they could understand and respect one another more than either would let on, because, whatever their flaws, there was much to be admired in each of them. "If you and your line mates can't understand, it's because either you're stupid, lazy, or both. You boys need to put your brains together to figure out which one it is, so you can fix the problem and do something besides bumble around hopelessly in the next drill."

Before Rob could fire back something that probably questioned Herb's intelligence or work ethic, Herb whirled around and snarled at the bench, "Coneheads, you're up!"

As they returned to the bench, Rob hissed to Mark and Eric, "We're supposedly stupid, but Herb is the one who apparently cut class the day the English teacher explained that 'either' is for two choices, not three. That's rich. I could break a rib laughing at that."

"You're quite the grammar guru," observed Eric as they sat down on the bench. "Well, I guess every line needs one, or else they'd communicate in horribly constructed sentences like 'Me scored,' and 'Give puck to I.'"

"We shouldn't take Herb's corrections personally," Mark said, thinking that while Dad was the type of coach who could point out the single ray of sunshine in the midst of a hurricane with sufficient excitement that you genuinely believed the weather would brighten any moment, Herb was the sort who could find the single cloud in a brilliant blue sky and convince you that an apocalyptic thunderstorm was on the horizon. "He communicates through criticism, and, you know, with him, the worst insult isn't to dismember someone word by word. It's to utterly ignore them. If he rips into somebody, he wants to improve that person's playing technique, but if he just ignores somebody, it's because he has absolutely no use for that person."

"My use is apparently to be his whipping boy," grumbled Rob, gulping water from his bottle. "How illustrious."

"Cheer up." Mark elbowed Rob in the ribs. "It's an old superstition in hockey that a hard practice means an easy game. By that standard, our game against the Soviets tomorrow should be a total walk in the park."

"It's like with plays." Eric nodded sagely. "A lousy dress rehearsal promises an excellent opening night."

Despite their best efforts to keep their collective spirit up as a line, Mark was almost relieved when practice ended, and the torture of running twice up and down that hill he was coming to regard as a blight on Lake Placid's otherwise idyllic landscape was behind him.

"What are we going to do with all this free time this afternoon now that we don't have to hunt for our tree?" asked Rob, as they made their way down one of Lake Placid's side streets, a powdery snow falling onto their hats and coats.

"We could go to the movies," Mark suggested, catching sight of the flashing banner advertisements dashing across the overhang of a cinema down the road. "There has to be something decent out around the holiday season."

"Popcorn. Licorice. Soda." Rob's eyes gleamed. "I'm going to raid the snack counter before the movie starts."

"This coming from someone who always read nutrition labels at the grocery store before purchasing anything," teased Mark.

"Practice was terrible." Rob stuck his lower lip out in a distinctly petulant fashion. "We need comfort food."

"If we always eat according to that logic, we'll be behemoths by the time the Olympics rolls around." Mark laughed as the crossed the street to reach the cinema.

"At least we won't look like midgets who got lost on the way to Pee Wee practice anymore." Rob shrugged. "If we resembled beached whales, the whole world would tremble before us and recognize us for the power play juggernauts that we are in no time."

"Yeah, right, and Herb would be delighted that his slight, speedy forwards had morphed into sumo wrestlers." Mark snorted, as they examined the movie options listed on the cinema's overhang. "After the movie, we should go bowling, as long as you are strong enough to withstand me trampling you into the bowling alley dust with all my strikes and spares."

"I'll bet you can't beat me." Competitive as ever, Rob took less than a second to issue this challenge.

"Stakes?" Mark titled his head inquiringly.

"If you win and the universe doesn't implode, I'll buy you a bag of candy canes." Rob pounded his gloved fists together with the exhilaration of a new competition. "If I win, you have to buy me a bag of licorice to further feed my obsession with the candy."

"Deal." Mark smirked. "Unfortunately for you, Robbie, I have no intention of enabling your licorice addiction."

Hours later, having seen _Wise Blood _and played a round of bowling at the alley, they returned to the hotel with their stomachs full of popcorn, candy, hamburgers, chips, chicken wings, and what had to amount to pitchers of soda. There probably was no more unhealthy combination of cuisine than what could be bought at the cinema and the bowling alley, Mark thought as he boarded the hotel elevator with Rob.

"Thanks for the candy canes." Mark crunched happily into a candy cane from the bag Rob had been compelled to buy him when he won the bowling round by a strike to Rob's spare during their last turn, while the elevator hurtled them up to their floor. "They're delicious."

"Don't tempt me to discover if your teeth shattering when I punch them sounds the same as you biting into a candy cane." Rob wrinkled his nose.

"Have a candy cane." Mark deposited one in Rob's palm. "It'll make everything better."

"It'll taste like bitter defeat," grunted Rob, but he pushed the candy cane out of its wrapper and began to suck on it.

A second later, the elevator stopped at their floor, and, as they stepped out, pandemonium greeted them. Down the hallway, outside Jimmy's door, a knot of their teammates was clustered, drumming on the door and howling in unison, "Jimmy! We want Jimmy!"

"What's going on?" Rob asked OC as he and Mark joined the horde outside Jimmy's door.

"Jimmy's conducting an interview with the press." OC snickered. "That obviously places us in the role of adoring public, Mac."

Mark had no chance to learn whether he and Rob would have been swept up in the madness or have fled from the lunacy, because Coach Patrick marched out of the room across from Jimmy's and actually shouted to make himself heard over the babble, "Now, boys, enough is enough. Lights-out in thirty minutes, because you need to be well-rested for tomorrow's game, and I'm sure you all have to take showers before then."

Reluctantly, the congregation outside Jimmy's door dispersed, vanishing into their hotel rooms. As he walked down the hallway toward his room with Mark and Rob alongside him, OC protested, "Hockey players should be too tough to take showers. If they need to get clean, they should have to stand in the snow because that's definitely what God put it there for. Hot water is for oatmeal, girls, and other soft, wet things."

"No wonder you smell worse than a dead horse." Rob plugged his nose. "I guess we should just be grateful that you don't bathe in a slop bucket."

"That's for pigs. I'm a hockey player, idiot." OC waved as he disappeared into his room. "See you tomorrow when the Soviets are doing the world a favor and slapping you around a bit."

"Nice that Jimmy got his own little press conference," commented Rob as he and Mark continued down the corridor to their room. "Maybe I'd get more interviews if I were goalie."

"I wouldn't if I were goalie." Mark grinned. "I'd be a total sieve if I were goalie. I'd just flop around like a fish out of water, and bury my head in my glove every time the horn sounded when somebody scored on me."

"Come on." Rob nudged him in the shoulder. "Being a goalie can't be that difficult. You've just got to keep the puck out of the net. Easy as eating a slice of apple pie."

"I'm sure goalies believe being a forward is simple," pointed out Mark as they turned into their own hotel room. "I bet they're always thinking that all forwards have to do is get the puck in the net, and what's so hard about that?"

They took turns showering and preparing for bed in the bathroom. Half an hour later, when a knock hit their door, they were both tucked under their covers, engrossed in their respective books.

When Rob demonstrated no intention of getting out of bed to answer the door, Mark, sighing, climbed out from beneath his warm covers and scrambled over to the door, which he opened to reveal Coach Patrick.

"Lights out, boys," ordered Coach Patrick after checking that they were both in the room. "Time for bed."

"What if we're not tired?" Rob looked up from _A Tale of Two Cities _to offer this piqued inquiry.

"Then close your eyes and count sheep," replied Coach Patrick mildly. "The boredom should put you to sleep in no time."

"That's for five-year-olds," Rob scoffed, slamming his novel shut around his bookmark and throwing it onto the nightstand. "I'm not five anymore."

"Stop having a tantrum just because it's bedtime, then," responded Coach Patrick, his tone sharpening.

Before Rob, who was opening his big mouth again, could retort, Mark flicked off the light switch by the door, leaving the room illuminated only by the dim beams cast by the lamp on the nightstand Rob was still showing no sign of turning off.

"We're turning all our lights off now, Coach," Mark announced, taking control of the situation before Rob's tongue really created trouble. "Good night."

"Good night, boys." Coach Patrick shut the door, and, in the corridor, Mark could hear the sound of his footsteps moving on to ensure that the players in the next room were in bed by curfew.

"I've got one question for you, Robbie." Mark massaged his temples as he crossed the room toward his bed. "Why can't you ever just obey without making much ado about nothing?"

"A question for a question," riposted Rob. "Mark, why do you always have to do what you're told without a fuss?"

"I'll put up a fight if I think someone in authority is doing something immoral or asking me to do something unethical, but if the order is just annoying and not immoral, I figure I should obey without making a scene." Mark switched off the lamp, plunging the room entirely into darkness and wrapped himself back under his blankets. "I assume that most of the time people in authority have a good reason for their orders, even if they don't explain that reason to me, and that good reason probably isn't that they're trying to steam me up. Now, it's your turn in the hot seat, Rob. Why can't you ever just behave?"

"Well, unlike you, I think that people in authority should be able to explain the reasons behind their orders if their logic is so sound," Rob answered, and there was a rustling of covers that indicated he was rolling around, trying to find the most comfortable spot on the mattress. "If they aren't smarter than me and can't prove they're right, I don't see why they should be in charge of me when I have a perfectly functioning brain of my own."

"In other words, you have a problem with authority." Mark plumped his pillow. "You have oppositional defiant disorder or whatever it's called."

"I don't have a problem with authority in theory." Rob's voice cut through the darkness after a thoughtful pause. "Authority is order, and I love order in concept and in execution. Really, it's just improper, dumb uses of authority that raise my hackles."

"A curfew isn't an improper, dumb use of authority, though." Mark sighed. "We need our sleep if we want to perform at our best in games."

"Sure we do, but that doesn't mean it isn't a gigantic insult for coaches to treat us like we're too stupid and irresponsible to set the bedtime we need to be successful without them hovering over us like nannies," scoffed Rob. "It's just as demeaning as if they stood over us at dinner, making certain we ate our veggies, because we can't play well if we aren't healthy, and, obviously, we can't be trusted to feed ourselves properly."

"We did just binge on the greasiest food in the universe, so that argument basically sinks under its own weight." Mark curled up into a snug ball he didn't intend to budge out of until the diabolical alarm clock rang out the next morning. "Now, I'm going to sleep so I can have the energy to score a hat trick tomorrow."

"You might get a hat trick of penalties." Rob snorted loudly enough to be heard across the room. "That's the best you can hope for, I'm afraid, Magic."

"Ah, well, I'll look on the bright side, Mac." Mark burrowed further into his blankets. "If I can't impress Herb as a playmaker, stickhandler, or sharpshooter, I'll at least show him what a dominant goon I can be. Every team needs a good goon, and why can't I be this one's?"


	12. Chapter 12

"**Love all, trust a few,  
Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy  
Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend  
Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence,  
But never tax'd for speech."**

—**William Shakespeare, **_**All's Well that Ends Well**_

All's Well that Ends Well

It was the knotting in his stomach and intestines that woke Mark in the black, inky hours of night that had not yet bled into a pre-dawn gray. He felt as if all the grease he had so unwisely gobbled was boiling inside him, begging to steam out of him at once. Feeling the acid start to blaze a trail up his throat, he knew from miserable years of living with a sensitive stomach that he had less than a minute to make it to the bathroom before he made a very disgusting and smelly mess all over the hotel room's carpet.

With as much speed as he could muster through the fog of nausea and haze of sleepiness, he leapt out of bed and hurried into the bathroom, grateful that his bed was the one closer to the bathroom. He didn't waste the time it took to flip on the lights or shut the door behind him. As it was, he barely managed to lift the lid of the toilet before he vomited up the semi-digested remains of his unhealthy lunch and dinner, the amalgamation of which would probably be enough to have him swear off greasy foods for a month. Perhaps, because his guardian angel had a perverse sense of humor, this was supposed to hammer home the importance of moderation.

His throat burned, and Mark wondered how many years he had left with his esophagus before all the acid from his sensitive stomach destroyed it entirely. His shoulders heaved, and his whole sweaty body spasmed as another pool of sick landed in the toilet.

_Stupid_, Mark thought, calling himself nine kinds of idiot before continuing with his mental reprimand, _you know that you puke if you have too much grease, too much sugar, too much dairy, too much fiber, or too much of anything really. Why do you inflict this suffering on yourself all the time, huh? _

Every organ inside of him was on fire, but his skin was so cold that he couldn't help shivering. Each particle in his body felt absolutely wretched, and he couldn't prevent the tears from welling in his eyes, though at least he could restrain them from trickling down his cheeks. He felt so alone, and he wanted someone beside him for comfort and morale support, but that was pathetic and selfish, he told himself sternly. There was nothing anyone could really do to help someone who was barfing except control their urge to throw up in sympathy.

As if Mark's desperate, instinctive desire not to be alone had summoned him, Rob could be heard shuffling toward the bathroom in his slippers, asking, voice thick with sleep, "You all right, Mark?"

_Never been better_, Mark thought and might have said if his mouth had not been preoccupied with spewing something beside sarcasm.

Apparently deciding for himself that Mark was far from all right, Rob turned on the lights—causing Mark's eyes to blink in shocked pain as the bright rays stabbed into them—and crossed over to the toilet. He yanked off the blue cotton bathrobe he had draped around his shoulders and wrapped it around Mark's instead. The extra fabric, warm from Rob's body heat, stopped Mark's shaking, as Rob knelt beside him and patted his back gently.

For what seemed like an eon but was probably no more than a minute or two, Mark continued to vomit intermittently into the toilet bowl. Then, when his stomach and intestines no longer felt like clenched fists shooting out flames inside him, he got to his feet, Rob alongside him with a hand outstretched to catch him if he wobbled.

Mark flushed the toilet, eager to erase all evidence of his sick experience, while Rob ran a washcloth under a jet of warm water.

"Let's get you cleaned up," muttered Rob, rubbing the cloth over Mark's chin and cheeks, so Mark could feel some of the lingering dirtiness of retching losing its grip on him and some heat seeping through the pores of his chilled skin. "Is that better?"

"Yeah." Mark nodded and could feel the acid on his teeth and tongue as he spoke.

"Good." Rob squirted toothpaste onto Mark's brush and then thrust it between Mark's fingers. "Here. This will get rid of some of that nasty aftertaste."

As Mark brushed his teeth, tasting the rottenness of semi-digested food being replaced by the freshness of mint, Rob filled one of the paper cups from the complimentary stack on the sink with cold water, saying, "Drink this when you're done brushing. We can't have you getting dehydrated."

Mark nodded, and, a minute later, he spat out his toothpaste, rinsed his mouth with water from the tap, and then downed the water in the cup that Rob had set out for him.

"Thanks," he said, dumping the cup into the trash.

"Don't mention it." Rob shrugged off his roommate's expression of gratitude. "I'm sure you'd do the same for me if our positions were reversed."

"Of course." Mark managed a somewhat tremulous grin. "Well, I guess we both should be getting back to sleep now."

Rob's eyebrows lifted in the manner they typically did when he deemed that a person he was conversing with had made a statement of at best dubious intellectual merit. "_You _should go back to bed. I should get Doc from down the hallway."

"Why would you need to get Doc?" Mark's forehead furrowed, not approving of the road down which this discussion was cruising.

"What an incisive question. Let's all think really hard about that one, shall we?" With a look of exaggerated contemplation, Rob scratched at his chin. "I suppose that you did just throw up your innards all over our toilet. Maybe that's why it would be a good idea for you to get some medical attention, Magic."

"What's Doc going to tell me that I don't already know?" Mark asked, swallowing his impatience by reminding himself that Rob, mocking as he was, was sincerely concerned for his welfare and didn't deserve to be scorned for that. "Will he peer down my throat with a little flashlight and tell me that, yes, indeed, I have barfed? What a useful piece of information that would be."

"I'm not a doctor, so I can't tell you what he'll say, but he might be able to determine whether you've got the flu or food poisoning." His face stern now, Rob folded his arms across his chest. "Information like that is worth waking up Doc for, even if you're too stubborn to admit it."

Biting back a wry commentary on how Rob was an excellent person to criticize others for bull-headedness, Mark countered with all the serenity he could summon, "Rob, we know it's not food poisoning, because we ate the same food all day, and you aren't sick. I know it's not the flu, since, if it were, I would still feel awful, and I don't. It's just a one-time reaction to cramming my stomach with too much greasy food."

"I still think that we should get Doc to deliver a proper diagnosis." Unswayed by Mark's logic, Rob shook his head. Seeing his roommate open his mouth to dispute this, he went on in a terse tone, "If you're right, Mark, then it will be no big deal, and, if you're wrong, it will be better to learn that sooner rather than later."

"We shouldn't wake Doc up in the middle of the night for anything less than an emergency." Mark widened his eyes emphatically. "That would be rude. Anyway, we don't want Coach Patrick catching you out of bed after curfew when you already had an argument with him about it tonight."

"Coach Patrick's room is at the far end of the hallway." Rob rolled his eyes. "He's not going to catch me out after curfew, and, even if he did, he would melt into a puddle of paternal concern the second I explained about your sickness."

"Herb will catch you, then, before you have a chance to do any explaining to Coach Patrick." Longing to disappear under his covers and drift off to dreamland on his mattress instead of argue on the cold bathroom tiles, Mark massaged his temples. "His door is diagonal to ours, and if he doesn't sleep with one eye open, alert to any trouble any of us boys might stir up, then I'm a sparrow."

"I don't care if Herb catches me." Rob waved a dismissive palm. "He's a tyrant, but he's one who can prioritize. He'll instantly understand that it's more important for him to ensure that his MVP gets appropriate medical care than to make certain I get punished for daring to stick a toe out of this hotel room after curfew."

"I don't want Herb to know about me being sick." Mark's jaw clenched, because the only thing worse than puking into the toilet was Herb knowing that he had done so. He didn't want Herb writing him off as a weakling who could ultimately only be depended upon to throw up before crucial games. "In fact, that's exactly why you can't go to Doc, because he'll tell Herb about seeing me in the middle of the night. Do you realize that Herb will regard me as nothing more than a wimp if I go crying to Doc because of a little stomachache?"

"Don't be ridiculous, and listen to the voice of reason," replied Rob, all crisp authority. "Herb couldn't have been more derisive in his rant about players going to Doc for cold cures, but you're his star player. He'll take you being sick very seriously."

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't like to think of himself as the team's star player (since, even in his head, that sounded so arrogant he wanted to punch himself in the face), but he did recognize that Herb treated him differently—giving him more respect and freedom than he did other members of the team. He was determined to never take advantage of that and to always do whatever Herb and his team expected of him. Ever since Oslo when Herb could've had his revenge on Badger Bob by kicking Mark off the team for smashing his stick and instead had given Mark a vital role to play, he had promised that he would never again let Herb down. He would be the player his coach could look to for a quick change in momentum during a difficult game or to score the much-needed, impossible-seeming goal. He would never give up until he heard the horn signaling the end of the period, so he definitely was not going to miss the gold medal game of the tournament because of a minor stomach upset, and he was afraid that might happen if Herb heard he had been ill…

"It'll be even worse if he takes me seriously, Mac." Mark bit his lip. "If he takes me seriously about the stomachache, he might sit me out of tomorrow's game, and I'd go crazy if I couldn't play in the final game of the tournament."

"If Herb doesn't allow you to play tomorrow, it'll be because you're sick and need to recover." Rob sighed. "In other words, because contrary to your belief, Magic, your health is important."

"Getting sick from greasy food is nothing." Aggravated, Mark tore his fingers through his hair. "Listen to me, Robbie—"

"No, you listen to me," cut in Rob, severe as a teacher reproving a class for failing their exams. "Would you say it was nothing if I were the one puking up my guts?"

"No, of course not," Mark conceded, because he would never be a big enough jerk to tell a friend that their sickness was no big deal, "but—"

"But nothing, Mark." Rob pivoted and strode toward the doorway. "I'm going to get Doc."

"No!" exclaimed Mark, grabbing onto Rob's elbow. "If you're really my friend, you'll respect my wishes and not tell anyone about this."

"Right," Rob scoffed, "and I suppose if you were an alcoholic or suicidal, I'd also only be a real friend if I kept my mouth shut about that too."

"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it." Mark gritted his teeth, even though he was well aware that damaged them. "You've gone past comparing apples to oranges right into the insane realm of claiming apples and steaks are the same thing."

"Mock me all you like." Rob's eyes snapped with defiance and resolution. "That won't stop me from doing what I think is best for you."

Taking a deep breath to keep his temper on a tight leash, Mark responded as calmly as possible under the vexing circumstances, "Mac, your concern is appreciated, but, frankly, I believe it's misplaced. I'm not quite sure why you feel the need to—"

"Not quite sure?" interrupted Rob, incredulous, as he tugged his elbow out of Mark's clasp. "Since I know you're not a moron, Magic, are you by any chance concussed?"

"No, I'm not concussed." Mark scowled. "Rob—"

"Mark Johnson!" Pronouncing his roommate's name as if it were a curse, Rob slammed his fist against the sink with enough velocity to send the soap dispenser ricocheting into the basin. "While as a rule I find your humility refreshing, in this instance, I'm inclined to feel _peeved_. Your skills are irreplaceable, and your contributions to this team immeasurable. You don't have the right to treat your person lightly. What you have is an obligation to guard your health and well-being as though you were a Secret Service officer protecting the health and well-being of our precious dimwit of a president. If you so cavalierly refuse to do that, you can hardly be astonished when those of us who aren't blind to your importance make whatever arrangements we deem necessary to keep you in one piece." Here, Rob's eyebrows shot up. "Need I continue, or have I made my point?"

Mark dropped his shocked gaze to the sunshine yellow tiles. Not once in all the months they had played and practiced together had Rob come close to raking him over the coals like he were an errant toddler. Nobody chewed him out like that. Not his teammates. Not Leslie. Not his parents. Not his coaches. Not even Herb. He wanted to inform Rob in no uncertain terms that he had no right to address him in such a manner, but then he found himself wondering if maybe Rob did have the right, after all.

Every day, Rob poured every ounce of heart, sweat, and willpower into working for the success of their team in general and their line in particular. Quite apart from their friendship, Mark supposed that it was only natural that Rob felt something of a vested interest in his welfare.

"Mac." Mark glanced up. "Your point is made, but I believe I can serve this team best by playing tomorrow."

For a moment, Rob hesitated, ruminating over this. Then, he eyed Mark keenly. "If your dad, not Herb, were coaching this team, would you tell him you were sick?"

"Only if I felt like it would impact my game." Mark shrugged. "I don't think it will."

"All right." Rob wore the expression of someone who sensed he was agreeing to a foolish prospect. "I won't get Doc, but if you seem exhausted or ill in tomorrow's game, then I'm telling Doc about you being sick whether you want me to or not."

"Fair enough." Mark nodded as they finally left the bathroom.

"You know, Mark," remarked Rob as he crawled back into his bed, "some say of the two of us that I'm the crazy one, the reckless one, and the one most likely to go down in a blaze of glory."

"I've heard that about a million times." Chuckling, Mark slipped under his own blankets. "I've even said it about a hundred times myself."

"Well, you shouldn't say it anymore," Rob educated him dryly, "because in your own quiet way, Magic, you can be just as terrifying as everyone insists that I am."

"I'm sorry." Mark frowned as he burrowed more deeply into his covers. "I don't know how to answer that."

"You don't see it, do you?" demanded Rob, and Mark could hear the smug smirk in his voice.

"No, I'm afraid that I don't," Mark replied, plumping his pillow. "You seem to be implying that I take needless risks, but I can't agree with that assessment. I only ever do what I feel is right to fulfill my responsibilities."

"And rarely pause to consider the personal ramifications," noted Rob, obviously amused. "Face it, Mark, you and I are cut from the same cloth, and what a colorful bolt of fabric it is."

"Good night, Mac." Mark rolled his eyes into the silk threads of his pillowcase. "See you when that infernal alarm rings."

Within minutes, Mark, his breathing slowing, had sailed into sleep. He dreamed of circling Soviets, scoring goals, and creating dazzling assists. The horn ending the third period was just about to sound after Mark's game-winning goal when a noise like an air raid siren intruded on his glory.

As groggy in real life as he had been energetic in his dream, Mark groaned and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as Rob, stirring in the opposite bed, stretched a hand out from a mound of blankets to fumble the alarm's off switch.

"Shit," mumbled Rob, offering his customary morning profanity into the echoing silence that followed the alarm being turned off, as he climbed out of bed and crossed over to the ice bucket where they stored their food. "It's a wonder I haven't shut that wretched thing off permanently by chucking it at the wall."

"That seems a bit extreme." Mark grinned as he pushed off his covers. "After all, you could just remove the batteries."

"Extreme solutions are often the most effective ones." Rob snickered, tossing the loaf of Wonderbread, the jar of raspberry preserves, a plate, and a spoon on Mark's bed. "Here's your breakfast, sunshine. We don't want you eating anything that will get your stomach all riled up again."

"Yes, Mother," teased Mark, unscrewing the cap of the raspberry preserves, using his spoon to drop a dollop on his plate, and then tightening the lid again. "Whatever you say, Mother."

"Be warned." In the midst of pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios, Rob glowered. "If I'm your mother, I reserve the right to wash your mouth out with soap when you give me backtalk."

"Ah, yes, because that was such an effective deterrent for you." Eyes shining with mischief, Mark rolled a slice of bread into a ball, dipped it into the preserves, and plopped it into his mouth. "Your mom did that to you, and now you would never imagine sassing anyone."

"Come on, if I was afraid of giving everyone backtalk, Mom would have been way too harsh with her punishment." Rob smiled between bites of cereal. "She just wanted me to stop sassing her, and I did, at least when she was within reach of soap."

"You must have been your parents' favorite." Mark munched on another bread ball soaked in raspberry preserves. "That fact is just overwhelmingly clear when you make comments like that."

"Whoever heard of a third-born son who wasn't a baby of the family being the favorite?" Rob snorted, chomping away at his Cheerios. "I wouldn't have been the favorite even if I weren't the most absurdly stubborn and competitive boy in the whole neighborhood."

"Perhaps." Another bread ball covered in raspberry preserves vanished down Mark's throat. "You have to remember, though, that first-born sons don't think they're the favorite, either. I mean, if they were so perfect, why would their parents want more boys?"

It was, Mark mused, the ancient brotherly feud articulated quite eloquently in Genesis. Cain was convinced that Abel had it coming for stealing the love and favor that should have been his; Jacob felt justified in tricking Esau out of his inheritance because a fool did not deserve a birthright. Both felt overlooked. Both craved vengeance on their own flesh and blood.

"Either way I lose." Rob's lips twisted as if to make a laughingstock of his situation. "Nothing I did was particularly impressive, because Scott and Glenn had already done it first, and if I was wonderful, my parents wouldn't have had Stuart after me. The family dynamics are really easy to understand. First there was Scott, the athlete, who could annihilate anyone at any sport ever invented. Then there was Glenn, the scholar, who was smart enough to realize that if he wanted to make a name for himself, he would have to do it in the academic world, since Scott had already dominated the athletic one. Last there was Stuart, the entertainer and comedian whom everyone was supposed to admire and adore even when all he was doing was spitting up his baby food. In the middle was me, the stubborn one. I knew that if I wanted any attention—especially in the form of pictures of just me in the family photo albums—I would have to outshine Scott and Glenn at least sometimes. It didn't take me much longer than that recognize that I would probably never be as strong as Scott or as smart as Glenn. The only thing I had on my side in this brotherly competition was sheer tenacity."

Rob gave a wolfish grin as he dumped his used bowl and spoon in the trash. "My stubbornness is the only advantage I've ever really had in life. Sure, it's gotten me into trouble over the years, but it's also allowed me to do things I shouldn't have been able to achieve. I'll take that trade any day of the year. I may have been punished more than the rest of my brothers put together, but I also earned more awards than they did combined, so who would I be if I wasn't the stubborn one?"

"The I-must-win-every-challenge-however-small one?" suggested Mark, all innocence, as he returned the loaf of bread and jar of preserves to the ice bucket before throwing away his plate and spoon. "The I-never-met-a-dust-mite-I-didn't-kill-on-sight one? The I-only-speak-sarcastic one?"

"Wow." Rob whistled as he stepped into the bathroom to complete his daily grooming regimen with his characteristic zeal. "With all those alternative identities, I'm in real danger of developing multi-personality disorder."

While Rob was in the bathroom, Mark pulled out clothes from the dresser and donned them. He had just finished zipping his jeans and tugging on his sweater when Rob emerged from the bathroom. When Mark had finished preparing himself for the day, he stepped out of the bathroom to see that, Rob, too, was ready to leave.

Ten minutes later, they had arrived in the locker room, where they were greeted by an exuberant Neal Broten.

"Hey, guys!" Neal chirped, and Mark decided that Rizzo wasn't the only one who could be louder than an alarm clock. "Pumped for today's game? Gas pedal to the floor? Engine at the full throttle?"

"Ignore him," put in Silky from his cubby. "He's been asking the same questions of everybody as they come in. What a nag."

"I'm not nagging," Neal blustered with a flabbergasted squawk. "I'm encouraging."

"Didn't sound like it from over here," remarked Silky snidely. "Let's keep the alleged encouraging to a dull roar, okay, Mickey?"

"Whatever makes you happy, Grumpy." Unruffled, Neal beamed. "So, Mark and Robbie, you didn't answer my question. Are you ready to roll?"

"Full speed ahead." Rob pumped his fist in a gesture that most likely was intended to be more than a tad ironic.

"We're ready to beat some Soviets into next year." Mark smiled as he headed toward the locker to put on his gear. "They won't know what hit them when we're done trampling over them."

"Are you positive about that?" A wrinkle had formed on Neal's forehead, making him appear older than twelve for once. "You look a bit beat yourself."

"Yeah, you're paler than usual," piped up Eric Strobel, shooting Mark a worried glance.

"And you seem tired," Bah added.

"Are you feeling all right?" asked Buzz, eyes warm with concern that Mark did not want because it might persuade him not to play, and he had to play—it was his duty to play.

"I'm fine, thank you." Mark's smile had been replaced by the focused mask he wore whenever he was calculating how best to slide a puck past a goalie into the net. That was solid foreshadowing, he supposed, since he was going to have to score a hat trick now if he wanted his teammates to really believe that he was feeling well. It figured that he would have to prove himself in every locker room he ever entered. "I shall go on being fine until one more person tells me I look beat, pale, or tired."

"If you say so," said Rizzo, sounding as if he did not fully believe Mark's assertion but was not about to argue the matter.

"He does say so," Rob observed, and Mark couldn't discern whether this was intended as support for Mark's position or a veiled gibe at his roommate. Hoping that he would have his left-winger on his side when he needed to prove himself on the ice today, Mark chose to interpret it as the former. "I suppose we'll have to take his word for it, because I'm certain he would never lie to us."

Deciding that an insistence that he never lied would come across as far too defensive, Mark stood on tiptoe to pull his uniform down from the top shelf of his locker. As he did so, a leaflet fluttered down to land on his forehead. Removing it, he saw that it was one of the pamphlets Rob had taken from the self-storage shop. Under Rob's neat handwriting was an untidy, all-capital scrawl: RORRIM EHT NI KOOL.

_That's backward_, Mark thought, shoving the brochure in his duffel bag for later examination before the gibberish could give him a headache to accompany his somewhat queasy stomach. Straightening, he pulled on his uniform, and he had just finished doing so when the next distraction arrived in the form of Herb striding into the locker room to deliver a pre-game speech.

The game went better than anyone who had not been living under twelve feet of impenetrable bedrock for years—because that was the only way anybody could not be familiar with how thoroughly the Soviets dominated the international hockey stage-could have anticipated. Mark got his hat trick (his first and only of the tournament), and the US team, proving once again that it was a third-period powerhouse, came back from behind in the last period to defeat the Soviets 5-3.

After that, everything was a blur of euphoria that made it impossible to process even though it was one of those amazing, breath-taking occasions that Mark wished to recall in vivid detail well into his senility. There was the roar of the crowd applauding and cheering that resounded in his eardrums like a lover's pulse. There was lining up in a daze of victory to shake hands politely with the crestfallen Soviets. There was crushing hugs and pounds on the back to exchange with his teammates. There was standing in a row with the team he loved to receive a gold medal. There was biting into the gold medal as tradition dictated and finding it didn't taste metallic but salty like tears of joy and the sweat he had shed to reach this moment of bliss.

There was hearing the poignant strands of the Star-Spangled Banner, which only added kindle to the flames of pride and patriotism burning in Mark's heart, as Rizzo, representing team and country, stood atop the podium. There was, when the anthem hit its dramatic conclusion, Rizzo gesturing flamboyantly for his whole team to join him on the top of the podium. There was the team, recognizing that the physics of this would result in a ludicrous scene, waving, smiling, and skating off the ice, leaving their captain alone atop the podium.

That was the zenith of the tournament. The nadir was the post-game press conference, where Mark was supposed to have regained enough control of his wits to provide the media with coherent answers to their blitz of questions.

Sitting in the chair between Rob and Rizzo, Mark tried to give his best smile for the cameras flashing around them in blinding bursts, preserving them forever in color and in black-and-white. Then, when the questions began to be fired at him, he offered the reporters scribbling in their notebooks his most insightful and courteous answers, keeping his hands clasped in front of him, so that if they trembled with nerves it would be less obvious to the press.

Whenever his teammates, who seemed to be enjoying the experience much more than Mark, replied to a question, he would incline his head toward them, not only because it struck him not only as more respectful but also because it allowed him to focus on a teammate rather than the media.

Rizzo was in his element, providing novel-length answers off the cuff to every question posed by a reporter, and obviously overjoyed to be in the presence of so many strangers he could treat like old friends he had been close to all his life. He was someone who was so comfortable in his own skin that he didn't have to put on another face for the media, because if reporters didn't love him, he would just chortle over that with his friends.

On Mark's left, Rob was a different story. Mark often sensed that his line mate was very attuned to how he presented himself to the media and was always trying to cultivate the most favorable impression possible. Rob strove to define himself with an urbane posture, a broad grin he reserved just for charming strangers, and a studious devotion to incorporating hard work and team cooperation into as many responses as he could. For the most part, he even contained his sarcasm, as he always did, in press conferences, to mere traces of dry wit that were usually at his own expense.

However, that all changed when a reporter dared to ask him if he thought that the team could repeat is gold medal performance in the Olympics.

"That's a stupid question." Rob treated the reporter to the disdainful stare that typically meant he was pondering how a creature had survived so long without a brain. "If I didn't think we could win the gold medal, I wouldn't be here."

Mark, remembering Rob's insistence that the team was no more than a dark horse contender for the bronze, had to stifle a smile at this reply.

When the press conference finally ended and they had returned to their hotel room, Mark, flopped on his bed, couldn't resist taunting his friend, "You're an ardent believer that we can win the gold now, are you? Next thing we know, will you be burning heretics at the stake for doubting our ability to take another gold medal home from Lake Placid in February?"

"Of course not." Rob stuck his nose in the air at this goading. "I'm still not getting my hopes up for a medal from the Olympics, nonetheless a gold one. I just couldn't admit that to the media. It wouldn't display the winning, competitive, and confident attitude reporters and readers lov in American athletes."

"You don't have to try to tell the media what you think they want to hear." Mark fiddled with a loose thread on his blanket. "You can just be honest and say what you really think. Believe it or not, that's what the reports really want to hear for their stories. The media exists to give information to their audiences."

"Nonsense." Rob scraped back his cuticles. "Newspapers and all other forms of media exist to sell themselves to customers. Not to put too fine a print on it, but they aren't in the news business so much as they're in the write-people-what-they-want-to-read business. That's why there are papers with liberal twists and papers with a more conservative twirl. Reporters will take our answers and chisel them into articles that express what audiences want to believe, whether or not it's true information. The more we state what audiences want to read, the more they'll adore us, and the easier our quotes are to wedge into propaganda articles, the more interviews journalists will invite us to do."

"I have no intention of being that malleable." Mark wrinkled his nose. "When I see a spade, I'm not going to pretend it's a pitchfork to please anyone. I won't be rude when I state it's a spade, but I won't lie about what I see and think, either."

"Well, maybe the media will fall in love with tat quiet, rebellious streak of yours." Rob laughed. "Perhaps next time a journalist asks me a question about our Olympic medal chances, I'll take an ironically philosophical tone. I'll explain that the Olympics is like a marathon in which some people, like the Soviets, feel anything less than first place is utterly unacceptable. Others, like the Swedes and Czechs, feel like a solid second or third place performance is nothing to sneeze at, especially when the first prize goes to a very worthy winner. Still others, like our team, celebrate if they reach the finish line at all. I mean, for us, it would even be a major accomplishment to arrive at the start line, given how Herb pushes us to the brink of insanity and death in training."

"Yeah." Mark sighed. "I can't believe we have fifteen more practice games after this. I almost wish that the Olympics were tomorrow or next week, not in February."

"I know what you mean." Rob gave a sage nod. "I feel like if the Olympics were now, we could carry our momentum forward and perhaps scrape a medal, but, since the Olympics isn't until February, we might have lost our steam by then. With this tournament, we might peak too soon and have to provide awkward explanation in February about how we managed to get worse rather than better since December."

"Herb won't let us peak too soon," Mark said firmly. "He'll find a way to motivate us to perform at our highest level no matter what the circumstances."

"Yep, and we can count on that," agreed Rob, grimacing. "We can also rely on it feeling like a strong slap in the face even if he tries to convince us that it beats a sharp stick in the eye."

"Did you find one of the self-storage brochures in your locker?" Mark asked, changing the subject before they could dwell too much on the horrors Herb could inflict upon them in the name of motivation.

"I did." Rob bobbed his head in confirmation. "It had a nice incomprehensible note under my perfectly legible writing, but I didn't have time to try to translate the gibberish into English before Herb came into the locker room to give his speech."

"I think the writing was backward," commented Mark.

"More like whoever wrote it was backward." Rob snorted.

"Possibly true, but not what I was saying." Pushing himself off his bed, Mark rummaged through his duffel bag, found the pamphlet under a mountain of sweaty pads, and held it before the dresser mirror. "Check it out, Robbie. My theory about the backward writing holds water."

"'Look in the mirror.'" Rob glowered at the message in the mirror. "How useful since it can only be read after the person has done so. It's about as helpful as telling someone who has just done a face-plant to watch their step."

"You're being too negative." Chidingly, Mark nudged his roommate in the ribs. "The lake outside the hotel is, in case you've forgotten in your righteous indignation, called Mirror Lake. Perhaps Rizzo and Silky, not wishing to be victims of any more of our pranks, have decided to take our tree out of storage and return it to us by hiding it along the lake's banks. It's worth a check, isn't it?"

"Definitely," Rob affirmed, so they both slipped on their jackets, hates, and gloves to brave the winter weather.

Five minutes later, they were squelching through the muddy shore of Mirror Lake, searching for any evidence of their miniature Christmas tree in the muck.

"I'll bury Rizzo and Silky in quicksand if the ornaments are ruined by this gunk," grumbled Rob as they trekked through the mire.

"If Rizzo and Silky could hear us, they'd find your death threats hilarious." Mark snickered. "I mean, I know I do."

Rob glared over his shoulder at Mark. Owing to this distraction, he placed his foot on a particularly swampy patch of shore. With a slurping sound, his right leg sank almost to the knee in the muck that passed for Lake Mirror's beach at this time of year. An equally onomatopoeic noise accompanied Rob's reclaiming of the leg, and expletives flew from his lips as he hopped on his left foot toward solid ground. Crossing his right leg over his left, he tried to shake off the filth from his shoe, then jabbed his index finger at a strand of green slime that obstinately refused to let go.

"What is that?" he yelped in alarmed revulsion with breath clouds punctuating every syllable.

Reluctantly, Mark leaned in to peer at the slick sneaker, not wanting to get too close for fear of retching.

"It could be something alive, something that was once alive, or something that came from something alive," replied Mark, employing his most helpful tone.

"Now that we've narrowed the options to almost everything on the planet, it's going to have to hitch a ride on someone else." Rob grunted, shaking his right foot with mounting fervor.

Mark straightened and shoved his hands deeper into the sleeves of his coat. "I warned you there are worse places than Minnesota."

"Worse places than Minnesota," griped Rob, stomping his sneaker on a hill of snow. Ultimately, the clingy and indefinable slime decided that it'd had enough and soared off into a snowdrift. "Does Herb feel that we need to visit every last one of them in a tour of ugliness and despair?"

"Blame Rizzo and Silky." Mark's lips quirked. "Their clues led us here."

"I just can't help but think the next clue could take us to a more unpleasant location." Desultorily, Rob gazed at the muck around them.

For a moment, they both lapsed into silence, then remarked in unison, "Almost makes me nostalgic for Santa's sleigh."

"You know it's time to end the friendship when that happens." Rob winced. "In fact, I could see you and Herb getting all buddy-buddy. You share the same fondness for responsibility and lectures."

"Oh, yes." Mark rolled his eyes. "We're two of a kind, old Herb and me."

They continued their slog through the mud until Rob, pointing at a green plant too big to be algae bobbing in the lake fifteen feet from shore, gasped, "Mark, does that look like our tree to you?"

Mark squinted. Then, chomping on his lower lip, he confessed, "Yes, it does. Perhaps Rizzo and Silky didn't appreciate our prank, so they chose to pay us back by dumping our tree in the lake."

Rob muttered something that probably amounted to aspersions on the legitimacy of Rizzo and Silky's parentage, and then asked flatly, "How are you at walking on water, Magic? Because I don't think either of us want to go swimming for our tree."

"When the water is solid, I can practically skate on it," answered Mark wryly. "In liquid form, I just end up soaked and sinking."

"Figures." Rob snorted. "I guess we'll have to wait for Jesus to come down from heaven to rescue our Christmas tree for us, so we can pay proper homage to him being Light of the World and all that jazz."

"Don't be silly." Mark clapped Rob on the shoulder. "We just need to find a rowboat or something. That has to be how Silky and Rizzo got the tree into the middle of the lake."

"Why bother?" Rob growled, turning away from the lake and moving back toward the hotel. "The tree and its ornaments will be totally ruined before we can fish them out of the water. We can count it all as loss. Basically, we literally took a bath on this Christmas tree purchase."

Abruptly, Mark felt the urge to laugh well up inside his lungs. Here he and Rob were, racing around trying to find Christmas peace. Unable to control the impulse any longer, he burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Rob demanded, shooting Mark a miffed glance.

"We're running around like rats trying to find our Christmas tree as if that is what Christmas is all about," Mark choked out through his chuckles. "It's always kind of hysterical when you realize you've been a victim of that cliché about looking for happiness in all the wrong places."

"Your sickness seems to have traveled from your stomach to your head," declared Rob acerbically. "Was that even supposed to make sense?"

Mark opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off before he could begin by Rizzo, who was hurrying along the bank toward them, shouting, "Mark and Robbie, there you guys are! I've been looking everywhere for you two. I never would have thought to find you boys here."

"Why shouldn't we be here?" Rob arched an eyebrow.

"Because it's a miserable mud pit." Guffawing, Rizzo indicated the mire around them. "I never took either of you for pigs who liked rolling around in the mud."

"Midwesterners love mud." Rob assumed his haughtiest voice. "It reminds us of spring, and we never get enough spring, or any season that isn't winter, for that matter."

"Label me very surprised, and ship me to the Soviet Union." Rizzo's dark eyes expanded comically. "People from the Boston area prefer concrete. It reminds us of crowds and civilization. Anyway, if you want to go for another kind of wildness, I'm trying to get the team to meet up for beers at the bar in an hour. Do you two want to join in the excitement?"

"I wouldn't mind." Mark smirked. "A few beers tonight and an early flight tomorrow should make an interesting combination."

"It can't be too bad, or else they wouldn't serve wine to first class passengers." Rob grinned. "Count me in, Rizzo. I'll be the life of the party. You know there's never a dull moment with me around."

**Author's Note (a.k.a. an early Chanukah present for my long-lost twin whatarushh): **Now the story has come to a close, I can share how much is historically accurate and what parts are my own invention without spoiling any major or minor plot points.

A few days before I posted the first chapter of this fic, I was performing one of my routine Internet searches for obscure articles pertaining to the Miracle on Ice to further feed my obsession with this team, and what should I find? A gem in the _New York Times_ from the 1980's. This precious piece of journalism focused on Bill Baker, Dave Silk, and Rob McClanahan, who were playing with the Rangers up in Lake Placid at the time. I got through the first few paragraphs, which were the players reminiscing about how Herb made them run up and down the hill twice after every practice, with only minor squeeing.

Then, out of the blue, the article mentions how a miniature Christmas tree was stolen from the room Robbie and Mark shared in the pre-Olympic tournament only to turn up at the end in the middle of Mirror Lake. Of course, the adorable nature of this was so overpowering that I nearly squirted the water I was drinking all over my laptop screen. Once I had recovered from this adorable overload, I resumed reading the article only to find Bill Baker talking about how Rob and Mark searched everywhere for the tree, and how hints about the tree's whereabouts appeared daily on the board in the locker room.

This seemed simply too sweet to be believed, but I told myself, Rob was right there when Bill was saying all this, so surely he would have spoken up if Bill was spreading blatantly inaccurate information. Wanting more proof, I typed in a few choice words into Google search, and, almost immediately, was rewarded with another article that referred to the Christmas tree incident.

This article was more recent, focusing on Mark Johnson's memories of Lake Placid when he was coaching his women's team to an NCAA Championship there. In it, Mark described how a Christmas tree with all the decorations had been taken from his and Robbie's room during the pre-Olympic tournament in December and how they had found the tree at the end of the tournament fifteen feet from the shore of Mirror Lake. I had my confirmation that the Christmas tree story was true, and a delightful Mark Johnson article. I was a very happy soul.

As to the question of who was the Christmas tree culprit, Silky seems to be implicated by Bill Baker in the Rangers article, because Bill talks about how "you guys" stole the Christmas tree and wrote the hints on the board. Assuming that Rob and Mark did not steal their own tree and leave themselves clues, there is really nobody else Bill could be addressing, so I think that Silky is guilty and had an accomplice.

Whether Rizzo was the accomplice is open to interpretation. Mark speculates in his article that Rizzo might have stolen the tree, reasoning that it was a Badger and a Gopher being pranked, so the culprit must be a Terrier, but there is no definitive proof that I have been able to find that Rizzo was responsible, so readers are welcome to reach their own conclusions regarding his guilt or innocence. It is only for purposes of this story that I've leant more toward the guilty side.

All the hints that Mark and Robbie received during this fic as well as all the places they looked except for Mirror Lake at the end are my own creation. I would be very surprised to learn that there was any accuracy behind those scenes.

In depicting the tournament, I've tried to be as accurate as possible. The teams the US hockey team is mentioned as beating all really were defeated by the Americans in the pre-Olympic tournament. In particular, the Americans did beat the Soviets 5-3 in the final period after being down, and Mark really did have a hat trick (three goals in one game). At the medal ceremony, Rizzo did urge his team to join him atop the podium, and the team truly did just wave and skate off the ice. Also, at the post-game press conference, Rob McClanahan did give the answer he is described as offering in this story to a reporter who asked if he thought the Americans could win gold in the Olympics.

As far as the locker room pranks (water on Rob's pads, covering someone's shoe with a condiment in a "shoe check," and taping somebody's skate blades), they are all traditional practical jokes in hockey, although none of the articles mention them being used in connection with the Christmas tree incident.

If anyone has any particular questions about the historical veracity of anything in this fic, feel free to review or PM me, and I'll tell you whether it's true or my own invention. Also, if you would like links to the articles I referred to, don't hesitate to ask for them via a review or a PM. I think that is a long enough Author's Note to bore even though most devoted reader now…


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